


The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Fingering, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Baby Watson, Big Sister Harry, Bottom John, Caring Sherlock, Christmas Fluff, Coming In Pants, Confessions, Dinner Party, Drunk John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Failed Masturbation, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Gypsy, Gypsy Music, Hand Jobs, Harry and Clara, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Intercrural Sex, John is Daddy, Link to Video, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Love, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mary Dies, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Anderson hatred, Oral Sex, Parentlock, Pining, Premature Ejaculation, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Rimming, Sally Taunts Sherlock, Scary Mycroft Holmes, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock changes nappies, Sherlock is Lovely, Sherlock is Papa, Sherlock's scars, Shower Sex, Talking, Top Sherlock, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, helping hand, of course, parenting, responsive sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another multi-chapter story. Expect lots of angst, humour, crying, laughter and sadness as well as tons of smut (later)</p><p>Story is beta'd by the beautiful and amazing sherlockholmesconsultingvampire. Written for the wonderful Mary_Jo_Holmes who has been super patient with me and my nonsense when waiting for her story! </p><p>I will add trigger warnings and tags when needed.</p><p>Title is taken from Lera Lynn's song of the same name. I have a spotify playlist which I will update regularly as I write</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/kirsty.hill/playlist/2jPeCQ8raVH0xzauGWCLCL">Playlist</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mary_Jo_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jo_Holmes/gifts).



**Weren't we like a battlefield**  
**Locked inside a holy war**  
**Your love and my due diligence**  
**The only thing worth fighting for**

**_Lera Lynn - The only thing worth fighting for_ **

* * *

“I need backup!” Sherlock screamed into his mobile as he ran down the narrow street to the building in which the Watson family now resided. “Mycroft, please!”

“ETA 3 minutes,” Mycroft promised. “Sherlock, stay out of there. We don’t know what’s going on in the house.”

“I can’t… can’t lose him… not John,” Sherlock shouted, uncaring at his unusual level of sentiment towards his blogger.

“I understand,” Mycroft insisted calmly, “but Sherlock, please be careful.”

Sherlock hung up and picked up the pace, his expensive Italian leather shoes slapping against the cement pavement as his chest burnt from exertion. His whole brain was wailing, sirens exploding around his mind palace as one thought echoed again and again down each passageway.

_Must save Watson_

* * *

 

John lifted his gun and pointed it at the gun wielding attacker; he didn’t hesitate to fire and landed a perfectly centred forehead shot, causing the man to fall backwards in a dead weight. John spun and threw himself against the back of the sofa and reloaded the pistol, he had three bullets left and would have to make them count.

Standing as quietly as he could he began walking to the doorway to the kitchen, as he could hear the commotion of his pregnant wife fighting against her attackers. John’s heart momentarily stopped as he ran through the door and tackled the second attacker who was standing by the glass patio doors. With a scream, John threw himself and the criminal through the glass pane, grabbing the man tightly and hitting him as hard as he possibly could with the butt of the gun. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as the man ducked away from the pistol and turned on John, hitting his gun hand against the brickwork of the house and forcing him to drop his weapon. John cried out at the sound of bones breaking and a sharp pain rushing through his shoulder; using his hand to hand training he had learnt both in the army and living with Sherlock, he quickly gained the upper hand in the fist fight and pinned the man to the ground. Using a shard of glass from the door he stabbed the attacker in the throat with his good hand, snarling angrily as crimson coated his hands and the floor around them.

John heard the sound of running feet; standing himself to full height he braced himself for impact. His eyes widened as Sherlock turned the corner, his long coat trailing behind him like wings as he thudded into John’s broken arm, causing the doctor to cry out.

“Mary?” Sherlock asked.

“Kitchen,” John nodded, his body turning to find his wife, the pregnant woman carrying his child and the reason that he had killed two men tonight.

Both men flinched at the sound of a gunshot and then a roar of flame.

* * *

 

“Target is down, I repeat, target is down.” Mycroft’s voice came over the static as John followed Sherlock in a daze. The detective was holding a heavily pregnant Mary in his arms and quickly put her to the ground, allowing John to crowd around her to provide medical attention.

“Mary? Mary, open your eyes,” John ordered, Captain Watson very much in control.

“J-John,” Mary mumbled, her eyes fluttering open and a weak cough causing blood to seep from her lips onto her fleece pyjamas.

“It’s alright, it’s going to be alright,” John insisted, his hand pressing on the gunshot wound at Mary’s chest. Neither he nor Sherlock would ever mention the irony of the location of her gunshot wound.

“The baby,” Mary muttered weakly, her eyelashes fluttering.

“She’s going to be fine,” John nodded, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and ordering the younger man to keep hold whilst John pulled the arm from his pyjama shirt to press against the wound.

“Forgive me,” Mary whispered, her teary eyes focussing on Sherlock before closing and reopening, allowing a trail of wetness to run down her bloodstained cheek. “Sherlock.”

“Stop this silly talk,” Sherlock said, attempting his best ‘ _everything-is-definitely-going-to-be-okay_ _’_ voice.

“Sherlock, say it,” Mary wheezed, her breathing becoming more laboured.

“Of course. You need not ask, I forgave you long ago,” Sherlock nodded.

Mary seemed to relax at the statement and exhaled long and deep; John held onto her pulse and watched as it slowly got weaker and weaker. Pulling himself to his knees, John breathed into his wife’s mouth and pressed on her chest, watching the blood rushing between his and Sherlock’s fingers as the house behind them burnt. Sirens and a helicopter could be heard rushing towards them as the two men valiantly fought to return Mary to life, but to no avail.

* * *

 

“The baby?” Sherlock asked.

John could only nod; the baby was fine. The ambulance had arrived immediately after Mary’s final breath and had connected her to ventilators to ensure the baby continued to live, before rushing them to the nearest neonatal unit. Sherlock and John had travelled in one of Mycroft’s sleek governmental cars, cutting through traffic as though they also had a siren and lights. Neither man spoke as they stared down at the blood stains which covered pale skin, the smell of cinders and rain perfumed their hair as they sat in silence.

Mary had been taken into surgery for an immediate C-Section to deliver baby Watson. The baby girl had been swaddled in cotton blankets and a pink hat before being sent down to the Neonatal intensive care for assessment, and Sherlock had managed to convince John to have his own wounds seen to whilst his daughter was poked and prodded by various doctors. John was too stunned to notice as he was led to a cubicle where a man x-rayed his arm, before wrapping his broken bones in a large sling which started midway up John’s upper arm to his wrist.

Mycroft had arrived soon after with Lestrade in tow; carrying a bag of brand new clothes they convinced John to change from his blood stained, ripped and fire damaged pyjamas before going up to the unit to meet his baby for the first time.

Sherlock sat in the disabled toilet in disbelief; this wasn’t how everything was supposed to play out. John and Mary were supposed to be happy and content, safe with Mycroft’s ever watchful eye looking over them at all times. The detective had attempted to scrub the crimson blood from his hands but it didn’t seem to be washed away, a fleeting moment of Lady Macbeth rushed through his mind as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. His though was interrupted by a banging on the door.

“Sherlock? It’s me,” Mycroft said, “open the door.”

The turning of the lock was the only warning Mycroft received before he was pinned to the wall by a very angry Sherlock; Mycroft bit back the cry of pain as his head collided with the plaster of the wall.

“Why weren’t you watching them?” Sherlock growled angrily. “You should have been watching them.”

“I - We tried,” Mycroft floundered under the pain of his arm twisted around his back. “We were misled.”

“Mary is dead because of you, the baby almost died and John!” Sherlock cried, emotion spilling freely. “If John had died Mycroft, I would have died too.”

“Sherlock!” A loud shout from the direction of the ward startled the detective into turning to see Lestrade standing with his hands open wide. “Calm down, yeah? Let’s just relax.”

“Fuck off, Lestrade,” Sherlock spat, startling the DI with the bad language.

“Sherlock, I know you’re angry and upset,” Mycroft whispered, his voice dropping to a level that only Sherlock could hear, “and I’m sorry. It was my fault. I’m to blame.”

Hearing Mycroft admit his responsibility sucked the rage from Sherlock, leaving him drained and exhausted as he let go of his brother and slumped to the floor in tears. Mycroft rolled his shoulder and winced but crouched down to allow himself to be eye to eye with Sherlock. “You need to be strong, do you hear me Sherlock? John Watson needs you.”

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip as tears fell onto his extended legs; the prospect of being strong for John seemed more impossible than untangling Moriarty’s web… but Sherlock would try.

* * *

 

John sat on an uncomfortable chair with his hand pushed through the small window of his baby’s incubator; the baby would occasionally make a snuffling noise or stretch out her limbs to remind her father that she was alive, and John would stroke his finger over her dainty Watson nose and wiggle his digit in between her clenched fists.

“John?” Sherlock whispered from the doorway, watching as John lifted his eyes and nodded for Sherlock to enter. The detective tentatively entered the unit and froze; the sounds of bleeping machines and the steady hum of the incubators so completely foreign that for a moment, Sherlock felt like he had been transported onto an alien craft.

“How's your arm?” Sherlock asked, angry at himself for being so stupid.

John furrowed his brows and looked at his arm, remembering the breaks and nodded once.

Sherlock took a seat beside John at the incubator; he felt like a sham. It shouldn’t be him sitting beside the newborn but her mother, the pair of them huddled together watching the first moments of the new life. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and watched as John let his finger stroke over his child’s nose once more.

The decision to take John’s cast covered arm and entwine their fingers together was an unforeseen action which Sherlock wasn’t aware of until he felt John’s fingers squeezing his own in a silent thank you. Together, they listened to the bleeps and hum of the unit whilst watching the baby live.

* * *

 

Sherlock returned to Baker Street to put his plan into motion; John was still raw with grief and had taken to spending every moment at Baby Watson’s bedside. The baby was still unnamed as whenever John attempted to think of a name, guilt struck him that he should be talking about it with his wife. Sherlock sighed as he pushed open the door and called out for Mrs Hudson, who came rushing up as quickly as her hip would allow.

“Sherlock dear, how is John?” Mrs Hudson asked with a softness to her voice which bordered on tearful, “and the baby?”

The detective let his head fall forward, “The baby is fine. She’s healthy, only two weeks early so she’s perfectly formed but they wanted to keep her in for observation due to the nature of her birth.”

Martha nodded before coaxing, “And John?”

Sherlock shook his head sadly and bit his lip. “I may need some help Mrs Hudson.”

“Absolutely, anything you need,” Martha insisted.

“Do you still have the number for the Cleaner?”

“Kerry? The Crime scene cleaner?” Mrs Hudson frowned, “It’s in my diary.”

“Good, arrange for her to come and deep clean the flat. I want it as clean as she can get it,” Sherlock ordered, “I also want to rent out 221C, I can pay a year in advance.”

“O - Of course,” Martha nodded.

“And I need you to buy a crib or baby bed… whatever a newborn will need. I’ll need a full supply for baby milk, nappies, the usual things,” Sherlock continued, grabbing his phone and skimming through the contacts. “I can have Anthea arrange everything else but would you be able to get the most important bits?” Sherlock’s eyes pleaded.

“No problem, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson nodded, clasping her hands together.

“You know my pin,” Sherlock offered her his bankcard, “Take whatever you need for the baby. Nothing is out of limits for Watson.”

Martha wasn’t sure whether Sherlock meant the doctor or the baby but she didn’t push further. Instead, she retreated into her flat to begin preparations for the newest arrival.

* * *

 

Sherlock arrived back at the hospital to see John awkwardly attempting to give baby Watson a bottle. He had balanced her in the crook of his good arm but he was unable to position his cast to allow the bottle to reach her lips, something the baby took personally and wailed.

“Sherlock,” John grumbled, “Can you grab her?”

Sherlock looked around the room and noticed that he and John were alone; no nurses were available to help and doctors seemed scarce on the ward which forced him to comply with John’s order. Walking closer, he took a seat beside John and allowed the baby to be transferred to his own grasp; the baby was heavier than she looked and Sherlock could only look down in awe at this miracle child laid in his arms. John noticed the reaction and allowed Sherlock a moment of wonder before nudging him and handing him the bottle filled with warm milk.

“Lift it up - bit higher, there you go,” John smiled, “Tilt it a little otherwise she’ll get wind.”

Sherlock grimaced at that thought but smiled when the child latched onto the teat and began to suckle, her little eyes looking up and gazing into Sherlock’s own as she fed. Sherlock stared down and catalogued every colour in the new-born’s irises.

“She has your eyes,” Sherlock whispered reverently as he looked up at his best friend who looked a little lost. His inability to feed, clothe or change his daughter leaving him feeling useless as a father.

“I can’t see much of Mary in her,” John admitted, “She’s a Watson through and through.”

Sherlock could feel a foreign feeling flooding through his veins; stronger than any sensation he had ever experienced before as he looked down at the tiny bundle in his arms. He focussed on pushing those thoughts to one side until he could return to Baker Street to catalogue them in his mind palace. The baby seemed to feel his restlessness and began to mewl, spitting out the plastic teat and wriggling in Sherlock’s arms.

“What did I do?” Sherlock panicked, looking up at John who smiled reassuringly.

“Nothing, she probably needs winding a little,” John said as he manoeuvred to Sherlock’s front, helping him reposition the baby until she was sitting up slightly with Sherlock cupping her chin. "Gently pat her back and then rub.”

Sherlock looked cautiously at John before moving to follow his instruction; he felt the first wriggles of the baby on his lap and smiled when the child spat up a small amount of milk with an exhale of air. Sherlock frowned at a second sensation and lowered his head to look at the bottom end of the child. “John?”

“Oh… erm… Just finish feeding her and we’ll change her afterwards,” John insisted, helping Sherlock replace the baby lying down. The new-born immediately took more of her milk and began to softly doze as she drank, settled in the comfort of Sherlock’s arms.

A silence descended the room in which the two men sat with only the occasional slurp or click of the baby’s tongue as she nursed. Sherlock looked over at John who had begun to sort through the various supplies needed for a nappy change.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Sherlock asked carefully, “We can’t just call her baby forever.”

John stilled a looked over his shoulder, a hint of anger in his eyes which quickly dissolved into numbness. “No, everything me and Mary discussed previously seems wrong now she’s here.”

“Oh?” Sherlock coaxed, mainly to continue the conversation so that it didn’t fade into uncomfortable silence.

“I liked Jennifer but Mary didn’t,” John shrugged.

“The lady in Pink,” Sherlock mumbled, anxious when John turned and stared at him. “Sorry.”

“No, I didn’t think of that,” John admitted, “Then I liked Kate.”

“Irene’s assistant.” Sherlock continued.

“Christ," John sighed, laughing humourlessly. “I couldn’t even name my child without thinking subconsciously of you and the work.”

“What names did Mary like?” Sherlock asked softly, ignoring the obvious anger running under John’s tone at the realisation.

“Annabelle,” John answered, “and Georgia.”

“You just need time, see what name she suits.” Sherlock smiled down at the cute child in his arms who had begun to sleep soundly. “It’ll be obvious.”

John nodded towards his friend and carried the supplies to the baby change table which had been left in the room. Sherlock awkwardly stood and carried the child tentatively to her father, his arms locked in place as though he were carrying a bomb or experiment.

John could only chuckle as Sherlock carefully placed the baby on the table and waited for the next instruction. The older man managed to open the buttons which connected the baby-grow and pulled it up his daughters tummy, exposing the nappy to Sherlock.

“Are you aware of how this works?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fairly certain I can handle digestion. I’ve managed my own for thirty seven years,” Sherlock grumbled as he opened the velcro ties on either side of the baby’s abdomen. Peeling back the fabric, he grimaced at the mess but quickly grabbed the baby wipes from the side and promptly cleaned the infants rear before rolling the messy nappy up and putting on a fresh one, allowing John the job of binning the soiled one. Sherlock put the fabric in place and began humming to the baby, his fingers running softly over the protruding nub where her imbilical cord still lay. The detective pulled down the material of her baby grow and buttoned it close before looking up at John proudly.

“You’re a natural,” John smiled, hiding his own heartbreak behind a veneer of pride.

* * *

 

John had taken to sleeping in a bed beside his daughter’s incubator whilst she was observed forcing Sherlock to leave the ward and return to Baker Street alone; although he had been living there on his own whilst John lived with Mary, the building seemed cold and lonely without his ever present blogger to keep his spirits up and provide tea. Opening the door to the flat, he glanced around and noticed the signs of deliveries been made to his abode, and walking up the stairs he found Mrs Hudson sitting on the floor of the living room with her DIY tools, putting together the crib which she had purchased that day.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, rushing to help her up.

“The baby needs somewhere to sleep,” Martha tutted, “I’m perfectly alright.”

“Your hip,” Sherlock queried only to be waved away dismissively.

“Is fine,” Martha glared, “Be a dear and pop the kettle on though, I'm parched.”

Sherlock realised how pliant he had become recently; following orders like one of Mycroft’s minions. The thought raised his hackles but he quickly retreated into the kitchen to begin tea preparation.

“I got baby milk and supplies,” Mrs Hudson said from her position on the floor. “They’re in the cupboard with your cereal. Kerry the cleaner will be here tomorrow. I suggest you throw away any body parts you don’t want her to know about.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded as he carried the now brewed tea to his landlady's side. Sitting beside her on the floor, he quickly began to read the instructions and helped her put together the full bed, neither spoke as they worked together.

* * *

 

John was sitting watching the baby breathe for the thousandth time that day, his mind was whirring with thoughts and feelings that he hadn’t expected; his wife ( _although that was only in name since she had shot Sherlock)_ was gone and he now had a tiny bundle of life to look after, alone with only Sherlock’s help. The detective was a genius, John couldn’t deny, but he wasn’t the most emotional or sentimental man for the job of raising a child. Would Sherlock even want to help? The Work had always come first for the younger man and now that John wouldn’t be able to go out chasing criminals through the streets, Sherlock might slip away and leave John behind.

The ache in his stomach as he thought about it was quickly trampled down. He didn’t have time or patience to think of _those_ feelings at the moment, not when he was expected to play the grieving husband ( _to a woman he didn_ _’t truly know)_ and doting father ( _who couldn_ _’t even hold or change his baby yet)._ John felt exhausted and let his head fall into his hands.

“Erm... Doctor Watson?” A voice from the doorway said softly.

“Hmm? Yeah?” John looked up at the man; a male nurse in soft blue scrubs was looking at him.

“You have a package.” The man walked closer and handed John a WH Smith bag with a smile before leaving. John furrowed his eyebrows and opened the bag, pulling out three large books of baby names and their meanings. Inside, was a small scrap of paper with Sherlock’s familiar handwriting.

**Hope these help - _SH_**

John smiled and wondered how he could ever doubt his best friend.

* * *

 

Flicking open the book, John trailed his fingers down the seemingly endless columns of names. He looked between the pages and his baby, trying to fit her face and a name.

John wished he had somebody with him, anybody to help with the decision which seemed so daunting. He decided to look through the meanings of names in an attempt to find one perfectly suited to his daughter.

His finger stopped over Abigail, reading the printed information beside the name his heart seemed to thunder in his chest:

_The name Abigail is a Hebrew baby name. In Hebrew the meaning of the name Abigail is 'Father rejoiced, or father's joy. Gives joy'._

John smiled to himself as he looked up at the baby lying in her incubator sleeping soundly. “Hello Abigail,” John whispered as he let his finger worm its way into her clenched fist.

* * *

 

John collected the papers signifying baby Abigail’s release from the hospital with a smile; a huge bouquet of expensive flowers had arrived that morning for the staff of the ward who had immediately come in to give John a peck on the cheek and a thank you, much to his confusion. Looking over at the flowers he recognised the work of Anthea and nodded his thanks to the various nurses and doctors who had been so helpful in looking after him and his child. He strapped the baby bag around his shoulder tightly and lifted the car seat which housed his daughter and began to the exit, hailing a cab and allowing the cabbie to carefully strap Abigail’s seat into the chair.

“Where to?” The cabbie asked with a soft smile, looking over at the man in the back seat. John still looked slightly worse for wear, with lack of sleep evident in his baggy eyes and bruises now fully formed over pale skin.

“Baker Street, please,” John nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hint of smut, little bit of angst and awesome Mycroft <3
> 
> Will try to post once or twice a week. I'm ALMOST finished the story and there are going to be roughly 16 chapters (or so my brain thinks at the moment)
> 
> Please comment, I adore them.

**But time has changed nothing at all -**   
**You're still the only one that feels like home**

**Missy Higgins – Ten Days**

* * *

 

John struggled through the door to Baker Street. The cabbie had helped him with the bag but John had refused to allow him to touch Abigail in her carrier, the thought of losing her or the taxi driver being planted as a kidnapper had immediately set in once John had settled into the taxi, causing his blood to pound in his ears as he listened to the cabbie making idle chat. Climbing from the cab, the driver had left the bag on the inside of the door and took two steps back, seemingly worried at the look on John’s face.

“That’s er…£8.50 please,” the cabbie had stammered, watching as John’s face slackened and relaxed. Realising that his wallet was in his pocket and he couldn’t reach, he had the option of putting Abigail down or calling for Sherlock. Thankfully, at that moment Mrs Hudson opened her flat door and squealed loudly, startling both John and the cabbie. John smiled and allowed Mrs Hudson the opportunity to coo over the baby as John used his good arm to fish out his wallet and pay the driver with a £10, telling him to keep the change and nodding a thank you. The cabbie returned the nod and walked back to his car before driving away.

“You’re here?” Sherlock asked, his head hanging over the bannister as he looked down at John and the newly named Abigail.

“I am… If you’ll have me,” John stammered, looking down at the floor. “The other house is…well…”

He didn’t want to say _gone, burned to the ground, nothing but a pile of ash,_ as it would give credence to the thoughts which pinballed around his skull. Everything he had planned since Christmas with Mary was gone, finished, leaving only scorched earth in which to attempt to build on. He finished his thought with a sad shrug.

“This is your home,” Sherlock insisted. “Its just… you’re early.”

“Oh, are you experimenting?” John asked tensely looking at Mrs Hudson who gestured for John to go up whilst she carried the baby. John relaxed slightly but insisted on Martha going first in order for him to keep an eye on his daughter and keep her in sight.

The view of the flat was something John hadn’t expected; every surface gleamed with a sheen of varnish that John had never seen. The sofa and chairs had been steam cleaned along with the curtains, the fireplace had been scraped out and refreshed with coals and wood whilst the kitchen table was completely free of scientific apparatus. John stared open mouthed as not a speck of dust floated past him.

His eyes were drawn to the sofa which made him cackle out loud, causing tears to stream down his face as he looked over at the scene. Nappies had been wrapped around various objects ( _including the skull, the laptops and a watermelon)_ whilst a stopwatch and clipboard lingered nearby.

“I was… testing,” Sherlock flushed. “Just wanted to make sure I could.”

John dropped the bag and walked to his best friend, throwing his good arm around his flatmate and holding him tight to his chest until neither man could force air into their lungs. Mrs Hudson watched on with soft eyes as she witnessed the emotional return of John Watson to Baker Street.

“Look in the fridge, John,” Mrs Hudson prompted, causing both men to pull away awkwardly from their hug. The doctor turned and walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge doors and seeing only food inside.

“No body parts?” John asked surprised.

“Not suitable for little people.” Sherlock flushed slightly pink, opening each cupboard in turn he showed John the various tins of baby milk and instruments to soothe the baby when needed. John could only shake his head in amazement.

“And to think…” he trailed off, causing Sherlock to frown, “you used to insist you were a sociopath.”

Sherlock tutted and turned his back to John before his friend could notice his flushed reaction. “Cup of tea?”

“Christ. Am I dead?” John laughed.“You’ve cleaned and you’re making me tea? This is too good to be true.”

Sherlock bit back his usual sarcastic response and clicked on the kettle. “Your room has been refreshed.”

John nodded and picked up Abigail, carrying her to the staircase before turning back to Sherlock who was grabbing the edge of the kitchen counter with his head low. John bit his lip but wordlessly climbed up to his bedroom, enjoying the scent of home.

The room he opened wasn’t the room he had left; the once bland and neutral room was now half bedroom, half nursery. A white wooden cot stood beside his bed which had been fitted with a soft, fleece animal print set with the matching mobile hanging above where Abigail was set to sleep. Two stuffed teddies already sat at the bottom of the bed on sentry duty, one was a small fluffy hedgehog with glassy eyes whilst the other was a bee. John huffed out a laugh and sat himself on the bed with his head in his hands, feeling the overwhelming emotions rushing through him as he finally allowed himself to relax.

He was home, Sherlock and Abigail were safe. Everything would be okay.

* * *

 

When Sherlock had been shot by Mary, John had moved back into the flat as a kind of live in carer for Sherlock who still struggled with his mobility due to the wound received by John’s own wedded wife. John had refused to talk about the situation with Sherlock, clamming up as soon as the event was mentioned; they didn’t talk about Leinster Gardens or the subsequent angry meeting in which Sherlock almost died on the living room floor after going into shock. They didn’t talk about the feelings of pain, anger and betrayal that John felt and they certainly didn’t discuss the feelings which both realised had grown between them.

The night of the stag do had forced John to think about his feelings for Sherlock; watching the younger man stumble over his questions shocked him into clarity. He had always understood Sherlock’s beauty; as a red blooded male, John could appreciate that Sherlock was attractive with his strange angles and prominent cheekbones. More than once, those pale hands of his would make it into John’s wanking fantasies only to be shaken away with a touch of disgust; John was straight, he was a straight man in love with a woman. He was just undergoing stress with the wedding and the cases, Sherlock’s reappearance and the issue of whether Sholto would attend the ceremony had curdled his mind into thinking he felt something he didn’t.

That stopped when his hand accidently made contact with Sherlock’s knee; in a single moment, a flash of heat had erupted up and down John’s spine causing him to see everything for the first time. He had argued with himself whether to grab for Sherlock’s face, cup his cheeks and kiss the detective senseless until they were both breathing heavy and sated; before he could put his plan into motion however, they were interrupted by the Mayfly man case and the next morning John wrote off his frenzied lust as a side effect of too many shots.

Lifting his head from his hands, John looked around the room and swallowed the lump in his throat which had formed. He couldn’t think about those feelings yet, it was too much to deal with. He’d have to work through them one day at a time.

* * *

 

John returned downstairs to find Mrs Hudson and Sherlock drinking tea on the sofa which had been cleaned of nappied objects. John put Abigail down in his chair and began unstrapping her buckles to pull her out, getting frustrated at his bum arm he began to sweat and mutter under his breath until Mrs Hudson stepped in with a soft touch to his arm.

“I’ve got her,” she smiled, unfastening the belts and lifting the tiny baby into her arms. “Oh John,” the landlady cooed. “She’s beautiful.”

“I need to sort her bottle,” John sighed, already feeling overwhelmed and tired.

“I’ve done it.” Sherlock gestured to the bottle steeping in cold water.

“Oh. Thanks.” John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, his brain was rapidly shutting down due to lack of sleep.

“Why don’t you have a nap? We have her,” Mrs Hudson soothed.

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” John panicked, looking over at the tiny tot cuddled to Mrs H’s breast.

“John,” Martha glared playfully. “I have plenty of experience with babies, Sherlock here is a genius and you’ll only be upstairs.”

“No… I shouldn’t,” John continued.

“Take my bed,” Sherlock nodded towards his own room. “The sheets are clean and it’s closer so you’ll be able to hear us.”

John stilled for a moment but soon acquiesced as exhaustion rapidly descended over him. He walked to his daughter's side and ran a finger along her nose and cheek, checking her temperature surreptitiously before turning and walking towards Sherlock’s bedroom. The doctor had only been in Sherlock’s room a handful of times, they had a fairly strict rule regarding bedrooms being off limits ( _not that Sherlock was bothered. He_ _’d have allowed John and all the Queen's horses to walk through his)_ which gave John a feeling of illicit thrill as he slipped into the warm room which smelled so perfectly of Sherlock. John could smell the aroma of Sherlock’s aftershave, his hair product and the underlying scent of Sherlock’s own body in the air; his cock began to stiffen before John had even become aware of the situation. Grumbling to himself, he decided to take a shower before attempting to sleep. Returning to the kitchen, he grabbed plastic bags, tape and a freshly laundered pair of pants before wrapping his arm to protect the cast. He slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, watching the steam steadily rising as the old pipes sent forth hot water.

Stripping off his clothes, John climbed into the tub and sighed at the comfort of finally being home and _normal._ He picked up his usual shower gel ( _a new bottle, obviously purchased especially)_ and began to scrub at his body, removing the lingering scent of hospital from his skin as he lifted his head to allow the water to massage his painful facial bruises. Trailing a hand down his stomach and chest, he sighed as the back of his hand brushed against his cock. He was painfully hard after neglecting his sexual desires for the last week ( _although John couldn_ _’t actually remember the last time he_ _’d had sex_ _… He and Mary rarely made love after the wedding and then not at all after Sherlock_ _’s shooting. He had made do with hurried wanks in the shower, a fact which disgusted Mary.)_ and moved to wrap his hand around his cock only to discover a problem. His usual wanking arm was now in a cast around his fist meaning he could only grip himself with the tips of his fingers. Growling with frustration, John attempted to grip with his less dominant hand but found that the friction and position was all wrong. Thankfully, he was too tense to take more than a few long strokes before he was coming with a sharp gasp and painting the tiles with his cum. Steadying himself against the chilly wall he breathed deeply to clear the orgasmic vertigo which quickly rose in him; he rinsed away the evidence of his self-pleasure and hastily washed up before climbing out of the bath and drying himself.

John pulled back the covers of Sherlock’s bed and sat on the edge to pull on a pair of shorts and take off the plastic wrapping of his arm. Letting his exhausted body fall onto the mattress he was soon dead to the world, unable to hear Sherlock and Mrs Hudson chattering in the background.

* * *

 

Three hours later John blinked awake; the flat was eerily quiet and his heart began to beat frantically as he threw back the duvet and barrelled towards the living room. He stopped as he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair with the baby lying on his chest whilst Mycroft sat opposite.

Mycroft raised an eye at John’s almost nakedness and let his grey eyes scan over the doctor’s physique; John stood his ground and stared Mycroft down until the politician sniffed and turned back to Sherlock who glared at his brother angrily.

“Ah John, you’re with us,” Mycroft smiled in his usual false way.

“Sorry… Sorry I…” John stammered looking between the two brothers and realising he was stood only in his pants. “I should…”

“Please,” Mycroft nodded. “We have much to discuss.”

John leapt into action and took off up the stairs to grab his dressing gown; pulling it on he heard the familiar acidic voices of Mycroft and Sherlock bickering about something but he couldn’t hear specifics. He caught the words _‘Perving_ _’_ and _‘Mine_ _’_ before he rounded the corner and watched both men clam up. Frowning, John moved to take Abigail from Sherlock and sat on the sofa, cuddling his daughter as Mycroft pulled out a manilla folder stamped with _top secret._

“Who were they?” John asked, opening without preamble.

“Seems it was an offshoot of Moriarty,” Mycroft grimaced. "An extremely secretive and efficient group.”

“Not that efficient, I killed two of them,” John snarled before looking at Sherlock who seemed to be in his own world.

“Quite,” Mycroft added before folding his fingers in front of his mouth in his usual trademark gesture. “It would seem that they weren’t particularly happy that she had found happiness with the sidekick of the world’s only consulting detective who had vowed to break their chain.”

John flinched at the word sidekick but allowed it to fall away as he sighed and rubbed his arm over his face, jiggling a comfortable Abigail who mewled unhappily.

“And you’re sure they’re all gone?” John stressed. “Because I remember _somebody_ telling me that Moriarty’s web was destroyed but sure enough, they come back and attempt to kill me, my wife and my child.”

John saw the flicker of hurt cross Sherlock’s face before it was immediately trampled down; Mycroft however bared his teeth and glared at John. John looked over and saw the look of pleading on Sherlock’s face as he looked at his brother, begging the older Holmes not to rip John to pieces.

Mycroft released the breath he was holding and spoke in his politician voice he used for explaining situations to the idiotic MP’s he worked with. “I can assure you, _Doctor Watson,_ you are safe.”

“And her?” John looked down at the sleeping bundle against his chest. “Will they come for her?”

“That won’t happen,” Sherlock insisted, the first words which had left his mouth since John had entered the room. “I won’t let it.”

“We must discuss the funeral arrangements,” Mycroft sighed, pulling out another folder. “I have taken the liberty of arranging most of it, but I thought I would run it past you first.”

“Hmm? Oh right, funeral. Yeah whatever you think,” John nodded. The low lingering guilt was returning at his inability to grieve for his wedded wife.

Mycroft handed the folder to Sherlock before standing and straightening his suit and picking up his umbrella; he walked past his brother and gave a tentative look to the detective who nodded once.

“A word, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft said in a tone that startled John into complying. He handed the baby back to an anxious Sherlock and followed Mycroft down the seventeen stairs to the front door.

“I understand your position, you’re upset, angry and grieving,” Mycroft started, fire blazing in his eyes. “But if you ever, ever throw back Sherlock’s attempts at protecting yourself and your family, you will be done with me, John Watson.”

John startled and took a step back, “I didn’t…”

“Sherlock lost a lot more than his best friend during his time away,” Mycroft stressed, his eyes becoming wistful as he stared at the wall above John’s head. “One day you will realise how much the man endured for you and yours.”

The politician gave a final glare to John before opening the door and stepping through into the evening where his car waited. Mycroft didn’t look back as he climbed into the car and slammed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**We were never meant to be this damn broken,**   
**Words were never meant to be this half-spoken**   
**Lucy Schwartz – Gone Away**

* * *

“Are you ready?” A low voice from behind John asked as the doctor attempted to fasten his tie whilst still lumbered with his cast.

John huffed out a mirthless laugh and let his head fall forward. “It feels like a stage play. It’s just a charade."

Sherlock stilled and turned John to allow him access to the wonky tie; his nimble musician’s fingers making quick work of the proper knot. “Let’s just get through today,” Sherlock whispered and placed a comforting hand on John’s shoulder before they took a large breath and walked into the living room where people waited for them.

Mrs Hudson and Molly were cooing over baby Abigail, who had been dressed in a pink and black dress and matching shoes. The room silenced as John entered much to his annoyance as he felt all eyes straying towards him.

“I hate this,” John whispered to Sherlock. “Do I have to go?”

“It’s your wife’s funeral,” Sherlock mumbled in return. “I think to not go would be a bit _not good_ and if you stop being my conscience then how will I survive?”

John chuckled slightly and felt Sherlock grip his shoulder once more before the detective peeled off to talk to Mycroft who was chatting with Greg in the corner. Sherlock approached and glanced at Greg with a curious look, the DI had been staring at Molly and quickly changed his view as Sherlock noticed. With a coy smile, Sherlock stayed silent and pretended he couldn’t see the two flirting in the small space of the Baker Street living room.

“Cars have arrived,” Mycroft spoke loudly, watching as John exhaled and steeled himself for a tough day.

* * *

 

“'Friends is all I have',” John scoffed from his position in his chair. “Where the fuck were they when she was being cremated, eh? They’re more than happy to turn up for a free wedding buffet but not to see her off.”

Sherlock sat with Abigail resting against his shoulder; his long, spindly fingers rubbing a track up and down her spine as she nuzzled closer into his warmth. He had taken her from John when the doctor had reached for the whisky and began pouring huge measures which Sherlock was sure would be much larger than triples. The detective had stayed silent; watching John carefully for signs of emotional distress but finding only anger and rage.

“Bastards, the lot of them!” John gulped another sip of his drink. “We’re better off without them.”

Sherlock continued to stay silent and focussed instead on soothing Abigail who was becoming sleepy and restless. The day had been an excitement with various people cooing over the baby as she was passed from person to person despite John’s obvious nervousness. Sherlock had eventually taken to carrying her around and refusing to allow anybody to take her away from his grasp.

“Why aren’t you speaking, Sherlock?” John asked, swaying slightly in his seat. “You always speak.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Sherlock admitted.

“Tell me why I don’t feel grief,” John looked sadly at Sherlock, his eyes brimming with tears. “She was my wife, the mother of my child. Why am I okay?”

Sherlock attempted to speak but was cut off by John continuing. “After you died, I was a wreck. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. I didn’t talk to anybody. I hardly left the bedsit I moved into because I couldn’t stay here without you. Why did I feel that way about you but not her?”

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, John.”

“This is the woman I vowed to love and cherish, through sickness and health until death us do part,” John chuckled dryly at that, “the woman I made love to, I slept beside and whispered sweet nothings into her ear as I conceived our child.”

Sherlock’s cheeks and ears flushed pink at John’s comment but he remained silent; allowing John to get his thoughts from his chest. “Why can’t I feel, Sherlock?”

“You can John, it’ll take time,” Sherlock whispered into the still darkness between them. “Just… give it time.”

“Time, yes. How much time does it take to stop grieving? It took me two years to get over your death and then you came back,” John whispered, a tear trickling down his cheek to land on his shirt.

“I’ve said I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“No, you misunderstand,” John started before looking at his glass. Noticing it was empty he reached for the bottle and poured another large glug of amber liquid. “I’m glad you came back, I was angry yes and I’m sorry for that… but I feel like I’m already over Mary’s death and it’s only been three weeks… how is that possible?”

Sherlock felt completely out of his depth; sentiment wasn’t his forte and he flailed for answers which would satisfy John.

“But then again, I didn’t know her, did I?” John continued, “I grieved for the wife I thought I had during your recovery. The woman I married died the day you were shot and in her place was an imposter, a stranger wearing my wife’s face and using her memories but it wasn’t _her._ Not my Mary. She was AGRA, whoever she was.”

“John, maybe you’ve had enough to drink,” Sherlock said softly as John resorted to drinking straight from the bottle with a hiss.

“Can you grieve for a ghost?” John asked before tilting his head. “A question for the philosophers or those men cleverer than me.”

“We should go to bed,” Sherlock soothed. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yes,” John nodded, “we should go to bed… Join me Sherlock, take me to bed and help me to feel something. Anything. Please.”

Sherlock froze and his brain clicked offline for a moment before he inhaled sharply and shook his head. “No, John.”

“Oh yes, I forget. You’re above sentiment and emotion,” John sneered.

“Not at all,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes meeting John’s for a lingering moment, “but I don’t want to take advantage of my best friend whilst he’s drunk and emotional.”

“What did Mycroft mean?” John asked, quickly changing the subject and catching Sherlock off guard. “He said you lost more than a best friend when you were gone.”

“That’s a story for another night,” Sherlock assured John as he stood and held Abigail to his chest. Walking beside John’s chair he stopped and placed a hand over John’s shoulder and sighed. “Goodnight, John Watson.”

* * *

 

Sherlock lay in John’s bed listening to the sound of John awkwardly walking around the living room; the detective plotted John’s journey from the noises of things being knocked and the crashes of John colliding with the coffee table on the way to the toilet. Faint sounds of retching could be heard from the bathroom before Sherlock heard John settling onto the sofa, followed by choked and muffled sobs.

The younger man counted down the minutes before climbing from the warmth of John’s bed; checking on Abigail he ensured she was secure before moving down the stairs where he saw John asleep on his back on the sofa. Creeping to his own bedroom, Sherlock took a blanket from his cupboard and picked up the plastic bucket which resided under the sink in the bathroom. Draping the blanket over John’s frame, he placed the bucket by John’s head before returning to the kitchen and filling up a large glass with water and putting it on the coffee table in front of John.

The detective stilled beside John’s head and sighed sadly as he stroked a hand through the blond strands of John’s hair; Sherlock smiled as John arched into the touch and mumbled something sleepily before relaxing once more. Sherlock debated with himself for a moment before bending at the waist and pressing a soft and gentle kiss against his blogger's forehead, savouring the smell and sensations on his lips.

“Let’s just get through today,” Sherlock whispered into the darkness, before turning back to John’s bedroom and the little girl who slept there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *TW* Tiny mention of vomiting.

**Loneliness consumes and there is no way back.**

**The places you played; the places you called home; the people you thought you loved, all of them, reduced to a memory of another life**

**Ólafur Arnalds - Memories**

* * *

 

Sherlock completed Abigail’s night feed whilst pacing back and forth through John’s bedroom; he couldn’t keep still, if he kept still then his mind would begin tearing itself apart with unwelcome thoughts and feelings for his grieving best friend. Sherlock soothed the baby in his arms and bounced slightly on his toes to rock her to sleep as he thought desperately of _anything_ except the sentimental emotions which flooded his body.

When Sherlock had been away, his first and last thought was for John Watson’s safety. He'd forced himself to continue on with his suicide mission to ensure that John and his friends were safe and protected from Moriarty and his criminal network. He had endured torture, surviving only on the memory of John’s smile and the crinkle of his eyes whenever Sherlock said anything particularly witty or scathing. Retreating into his mind palace had been his only escape from the pounding beating of his attacker; he imagined he was walking around Regents Park with John, the pair of them enjoying the rare sunshine which warmed their skin and caused John’s nose and cheeks to become flushed with pink. Sherlock had smiled and John had returned the grin before they had continued around the duck lake with the detective naming each species.

The memories only lasted so long; when the real torture had begun, and the whips started thrashing against his skin, Sherlock had been pulled from his mind map and returned to the dingy chamber where angry men ordered him to speak. Sherlock had momentarily wished that John was with him, the doctor would've rushed at the men and protected him but he was met with only silence.

The next time he was beaten; there was a new man in the chair. Sherlock looked at the profile of the man and allowed his heartbeat to quicken, his breathing becoming ragged as he recognised the familiar face. Getting rid of the torturer had been simple with a few easy deductions, leaving Sherlock alone with his big brother for the first time in two years.

When Mycroft’s men had surrounded the place and evacuated a bleeding and pitiful Sherlock into the helicopter, Sherlock could only collapse listless into the seat. His vanity had always been remarked upon in London but here, he allowed himself the freedom to crawl on his hands and knees to the seat opposite Mycroft who had changed into his usual suit and now sat looking through reports whilst typing on a Blackberry.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken; not during the rescue, or the questions from physicians sent to treat him and not even to Mycroft. The pair had engaged in fairly silent conversation, communicating with their eyes and becoming increasing tense as the helicopter took off to return to London via a stop off in Milan to treat Sherlock’s more worrisome wounds.

“Myc,” Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse from the hours of torture.

Mycroft lowered his papers and phone and glanced at his brother, his long curls matted with dried blood and other less pleasant substances. “He’s fine, Sherlock. John Watson is safe.”

Sherlock repeated Mycroft’s words, feeling each syllable calm his anxiety ridden mind before he passed out cold at his brother’s feet. He didn’t wake until three days later.

* * *

 

“Sh’lockkkk?” John spluttered; his mouth was dry and he could feel the pounding of a fairly major headache against his forehead. He opened one sleep crusted eye and realised his surroundings as the living room. Attempting to stand from the sofa, he grumbled and fell back down with a curse.

“You’re awake then?” Sherlock asked as he carried the baby into the living room to place in her bouncer whilst he made tea.

“I- What happened?” John replied, rubbing his eyes hard and groaning at the pain in his head.

“You got drunk,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Yeah I get that,” John sighed, grasping the glass of water which had somehow miraculously appeared on the table in front of him during the night. He downed it in three large gulps and gasped as the liquid entered his stomach.“You just left me here to sleep?”

“I wasn’t going to carry you upstairs and someone would need to do Abigail’s feed. I know you sleep deeply when you’re intoxicated so I took your bed.” Sherlock clattered around in the kitchen as he made tea, making John wince with every noise. “I would have put you in my bed but you were vomiting and I didn’t want it on my carpet.”

John huffed a laugh and thanked Sherlock for his tea when the detective brought it to him; taking a tentative sip he sat back on the sofa and watched as Sherlock seated himself in his chair and began tapping Abigail’s bouncing chair with his long toes, lulling her back to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” John sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I shouldn’t have gotten drunk.”

“It was your wife’s funeral,” Sherlock shrugged.

“I still have a daughter to think about, if you hadn’t been there…” He trailed off sadly.

“But I was, and still am, and will always be,” Sherlock insisted, blowing on his tea and taking a gulp.

“I think I’ll take a shower,” John grumbled as he stood and rolled his aching shoulder and cast covered arm.

“Good idea,” Sherlock nodded.

* * *

 

John wrapped his arm once more and climbed under the hot spray; he normally preferred baths when he was hungover but he had already spent too much time away from Abigail as it was, and lounging in the bath seemed like a waste of time which could be spent with her. Rubbing his hands over his body, it didn’t take long before he was half hard and feeling the first stirrings of arousal coursing through his veins. Using his non dominant hand once more, he gripped as tight as was comfortable and began a slow rhythm, attempting to twist on the upstroke to coax the first drops of precum to leak.

His private moment was interrupted by Sherlock who wandered into the bathroom and began brushing his teeth; not an unusual occurrence in itself but they had never co-shared a room whilst John was masturbating. John jumped and yelped as he attempted to cup himself to hide his erection.

Sherlock spat the foam into the sink and rinsed his mouth out before turning and staring at John intensely; their eyes met through the plastic shower curtain and lingered for too long to be considered strictly platonic.

“I was—thinking of taking Abigail out in the buggy,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes trained on John’s own rather than satisfy the craving of letting his eyes wander. “Mrs Hudson needs milk and biscuits.”

“Okay,” John nodded. “She’s got her coat on the top; make sure she’s safe, yeah?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, using the movement to take a look over John’s wet torso and the hint of genitalia behind John’s hands. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

John grinned stupidly and shook his head. “No. Sadly.”

Sherlock turned and left the room, placing Abbie in the buggy and carried it easily down the stairs.

The doctor held his head low and allowed the water to wash over him; his entire body seemed to be thrumming with energy from his encounter with Sherlock. Having those strange almost colourless eyes gazing at him seemed to send bolts of electricity through his very veins, forcing molten lava through his body instead of blood. His hand moved to encircle his prick; knowing that he didn’t have to be quiet or quick any longer, he steadied himself and exhaled as he began a slow and steady rhythm, his thumb rubbing over the tip occasionally in an attempt to spread the precum which formed in the slit. John allowed his mind to wander to his favourite fantasy.

_Sherlock would be sitting opposite him in their chairs, it would be quiet and tranquil in the flat as Sherlock dropped to his knees and shuffled between John_ _’s spread thighs, his long, musician's fingers running up and down the skin which John knew was always so responsive to touch. Sherlock would unbutton the older man_ _’s jeans and pull out John_ _’s already stiff cock. With a deep and resonating groan, Sherlock would inhale and sniff at John_ _’s pubic hair, enjoying the scent of his lover as he slowly began to lick and kiss at his weeping head. John would groan; his head thrown back to rest on the seat of his chair as Sherlock became bolder and began to bob his head, taking more and more of John into his mouth and throat before gagging slightly._

John had always enjoyed the sound of his partners gagging on his prick; not in a choking or violent way, only that they were overwhelmed by his (frankly rather average) penis.

_Sherlock would frown; the sweet lines of unhappiness showing on his forehead as he used his genius brain to think of a solution. Breathing through his nose he would try again, taking more and more into his throat without incident, getting John closer, closer, closer._

The doctor growled in frustration as his non dominant faltered in its rhythm and broke the illusion. John looked down at his own traitorous body and sighed, the moment was lost and he could feel himself softening with unhappiness as he turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

At least his hangover had receded.

* * *

 

Sherlock strolled along the main street; passing Baker Street Station, he was frustrated by the throngs of people coming from the tube. Sherlock hated rush hour but Thursdays were always surprisingly busy as people looked forward to the weekend, carelessly barging into the pushchair and startling the baby awake who wailed unhappily. Sherlock pulled over to one side and did his best to soothe the child, putting her usual pacifying dummy into her mouth which seemed to work. He was about to set off once more when a woman approached with a massive smile.

“Oh, what a delightful child!” She cooed, her fingers moving towards the baby’s face.

Sherlock slapped them away and glared at the stranger angrily and suspiciously; using his deductions he realised she wasn’t an assassin for hire, ( _she was actually a 62 year old Grandmother from Croydon with two cats and a parrot)_ but he still didn’t understand the reasoning behind her assuming it was acceptable to touch the newborn. She could have been riddled with disease.

“Oh,” she startled, looking at the man and then her red tinged hand. “Sorry, dear.”

“I’m a detective!” Sherlock shouted, startling the woman further.

“I—I didn’t mean anything. I was just going to say what a beautiful baby,” the woman muttered, moving away from the curly haired weirdo who was still glaring at her.

Sherlock grabbed the handlebars of the stroller and began a faster pace; reaching Regents Park in a few short minutes he relaxed and slowed himself to a more acceptable and less suspicious gait. Two runners ran beside him and stopped to look into the buggy, sighing and gesturing to one another.

“She’s very beautiful,” one commented, looking up at Sherlock and raising an eyebrow in obvious flirtation. Sherlock scowled and scanned her, checking for a suspicious background but found that she was a personal trainer instead, long time singleton that was beginning to fear for her own fertility chances.

“T- Thanks,” Sherlock mumbled awkwardly; he wasn’t sure what to do in these situations and wished that John had accompanied him.

“She looks like her father,” the second runner smiled, ( _banker, defrauding the company, married yet having an affair with her boss as a cover for her fraud)._

“She does,” Sherlock nodded, “he’s very handsome.”

The women looked at one another and shook their head in confusion before beginning their run once more with only a casual look back at Sherlock who couldn’t understand what was happening. Pulling out his phone he quickly sent a text to John before pocketing his mobile once more and starting towards the duck pond.

**Women keep speaking to me and looking at the baby. It** **’s confusing** **– SH**

John smiled at his mobile and fired back a reply as he attempted to wrestle into his jumper one handed. Deciding it was a lost cause, he pulled on a t-shirt and his dressing gown before returning to the living room to clean up the mess he had made the previous night.

**They probably see you as a fertile mate now. They want to breed with you Sherlock** **– JW**

Sherlock scowled as he looked around the park and then down to the sleeping baby in the pram; he had heard that men were often more successful when seeking romantic liaisons if they had a baby or young, cute animals with them. A situation that the abhorrent Anderson had named, ‘ _pussy magnetism_ _’._

The detective found a nearby bench and took a seat before pulling Abigail from her seat, and sat with her in his arms looking out at the ducks and feeling a strange sensation of peace flood through him.

* * *

 

John put Abigail down for the night after her bath, change and bottle before returning to Sherlock’s side on the sofa. Monday nights had always been their Game of Thrones evenings when Sherlock was recovering from his gunshot wound, and they had immediately restarted it after John’s return with the baby. Unclicking the pause button, Sherlock allowed John to settle into a comfortable position before throwing his long legs over his friend’s thighs. They had been in this position a few times and Sherlock had always enjoyed the feeling of intimacy he could finally share with his friend, especially when John was in a good mood and began to stroke his fingers around Sherlock’s arches and the tops of his feet. Due to his cast, he couldn’t give as much effort as he would normally but he still tried, although something was wrong in John’s posture, he wiggled and squirmed away from Sherlock’s legs until the detective sighed and paused the programme.

“What is it?”

“What?” John startled, looking over at Sherlock and blinking rapidly.

“Why are you moving so much? It’s as though you have crawling insects in your underwear,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

“Ha! Ants in my pants? I wouldn’t be surprised living with you,” John chuckled before lowering his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“I haven’t done any experiments up here for a while,” Sherlock countered before clamming up, hoping John didn’t catch his slip.

“Up here?” John asked,

“I rented 221C at a bargain price for my experiments,” Sherlock admitted cautiously.

“You…” John trailed off.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll stop experimenting all together. I didn’t think you’d mind but obviously you do so I’ll stop—please don’t leave,” Sherlock whispered.

“What? No I—You took out a second flat especially so that you could experiment?” John asked, touched at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness. “You’ve put yourself in financial hardship just so that we can move back in?”

“It’s hardly hardship,” Sherlock grumbled. “I charged the years rent to Mycroft’s credit card.”

John barked a laugh and both men giggled together until their sides ached and their cheeks hurt.

“Won’t he go mad?” John asked.

“Pfft, he won’t even realise. He’ll just assume his yearly chocolate order has overcharged him.” Sherlock smiled before relaxing back onto the sofa and restarting the show, the previous conversation forgotten until John began to wiggle once more.

“Honestly, John! I’m interested in the dragons!” Sherlock scoffed. “What is it?”

Sherlock lifted his legs higher and felt the issue; a hard bulge pressing against his ankle bone. The detective flushed pink and swallowed nervously as he watched John’s cheeks suddenly burn with mortification.

“Sorry… Sorry it’s not you, it’s just… _Christ,_ _”_ John whined, putting his head in his hands. “I think I'd like to melt into the floor now.”

“You haven’t been able to engage in masturbation since your cast was fitted,” Sherlock deduced quickly, lifting an eyebrow. “You feel tense and frustrated due to lack of release and have reacted to both stimulation from the TV show in regards to the actresses breasts and the warmth of my body.”

John nodded, he didn’t agree with the particular deduction but he wanted to do something, anything to get him from his awkward scenario.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the show playing on TV; the dragons had begun to do something exciting but he was too interested in his own thoughts as he debated the outcome of his most indecent proposal.

“I could help,” he gambled, looking over at John innocently.

“Sorry? What?” John asked, his mouth falling open.

“With your issue. You need the relief and I’m willing to give it to you.” Sherlock attempted to shrug nonchalantly but ended up instead tilting his head and squashing his ear.

“I don’t – that’s probably not a good idea,” John admitted, his stomach already tense with knots.

“Why not? I’ve helped you tie your shoes and tie, I’ve already seen you naked and you know you can trust me,” Sherlock continued, hoping he didn’t sound desperate.

“I just—Isn't it a bit gay?” John asked, his brain screaming at his foolishness.

Sherlock merely shrugged. “I heard that it’s only gay if your balls touch.”

John looked at Sherlock, lowered his eyes and then looked up again before the urge to hysterically laugh was too much and he grabbed his stomach. Almost rolling off the sofa he laughed so hard that tears fell down his face.

“I – I can’t believe you even… where did you hear that?” John howled.

“I erm… read it in a book,” Sherlock lied.

“You heard it on porn, didn’t you?” John asked with a knowing look, watching as Sherlock’s cheeks turned dusky pink and his lip curved into a smile.

“Do you want my help or not? I could always take Abigail out again and pick you up a date,” Sherlock teased.

“God no, I don’t—I don’t want to be with another woman yet… not after…” he trailed off.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock lowered his eyes and exhaled sadly, knowing he had messed up his best chance to get his hands on John, even if it was for a charitable wank.

“It’s fine, it’s good,” John shrugged. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be too freaked out by it?”

“By what? Your penis?” Sherlock asked. “Is it deformed?”

“Christ. No, it’s not deformed,” John laughed.

“Shame, that could have made it strangely more interesting,” Sherlock joked.

“Oh well, I’m sorry you’ll only be able to touch my boring, everyday penis,” John chuckled.

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Sherlock smiled reassuringly. “Now, can we watch this programme or are you going to explode over my feet? Because I’d prefer if you waited. I don’t want to be caught out with spoilers.”

“Git,” John mumbled under his breath as Sherlock continued the show and let his foot slowly tease its way up and down John’s length. Neither man mentioned it.


	5. Chapter 5

**If I could just be more human**  
 **I would see every little thing with a gleam in my eye**  
 **If only I was more human**  
 **I'd embrace every single feeling that came in my life**  
  
**Would I care and be forgiving?**  
 **Would I be sentimental and would I feel loneliness?**  
  
**Would I doubt and have misgivings?**  
 **Would I cause someone sorrow too? Would I know what to do?**

**Scott Matthew - Be Human. (Not on Spotify.[Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hGS1DkMob8))**

* * *

After the two had watched the end of the programme and checked on Abigail, they retired to Sherlock’s room cautiously. John stood in the doorway, as Sherlock swept into the room and quickly moved the pile of books which covered his mattress. Taking off his dressing gown, he hung it on the door of the wardrobe and turned to stare at John.

“Well?”

“Well what?” John mumbled, his nervousness threatening to derail the whole encounter.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Sherlock laughed softly.

John mumbled _right_ under his breath and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, looking at Sherlock who moved to the middle, his bum resting on his knees. The detective sighed, and grabbed John by the shoulders to manoeuvre the smaller man onto his back on the mattress with his legs open for Sherlock to climb between. John eeped with surprise but quickly smiled at his friend who had patiently folded his arms back into his lap.

“Do you have rules?” Sherlock asked quietly, “where I can and can’t touch? How you prefer it?”

“Not really,” John shrugged, “I just… need this.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding before reaching for John’s pants. Stilling his hands he looked up at John, “May I?”

John nodded and watched as the hands from his wet dreams began plucking at the cord to his pyjamas. Sherlock quickly and methodically worked until John was lying naked from the waist down, his legs spread wide and his face flushed red.

The detective used the chance wisely; staring down at John’s body, he quickly memorised every detail. The dusting of silver blonde hair which covered John’s chest and stomach, trailing down to the patch above his cock and down his inner thighs and balls; Sherlock bit his lower lip as he let his eyes drift over his best friend's prick. John had already begun to stiffen as they walked from the living room, but now, he was completely erect, his dusky pink tip peeking out from his tight foreskin to rest against his stomach. Sherlock ran his fingers up and down John’s thighs without thinking, watching as the doctor shivered with the sensation and gasped loudly.

Sherlock recognised the sounds as pleasure, not pain, and continued his journey; circling his fingers up and over the tight skin, he felt the pulse of prominent veins beneath his digits as he gently stroked his thumb across the sensitive frenulum, smiling when John jerked upwards and moaned. Thinking back to the times he had resorted to pleasuring himself, Sherlock repeated the movements he himself preferred by grasping John’s prick tight and beginning a slow and teasing rhythm. Normally he would rush himself to completion, but knowing that John needed the release from weeks of stressful celibacy, Sherlock slowed until he felt John rocking his hips into the grasp.

“God, that’s good,” the older man growled low, his fingers tangling into the bedding.

Sherlock preened under the praise but remained focussed on his duty. Stroking a thumb over John’s slit, he felt the first drips of precum leaking to be smeared over the shaft. Tightening his grip, he milked the shaft from top to bottom, watching as the clear fluid dripped from the end to roll down into John’s pubic hair.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, although his eyes were closed. Sherlock’s own cock gave a twitch of need as his name was reverently spoken by the man he adored.

“Shh, John,” Sherlock soothed. He didn’t want to get distracted by his own urges, and with John groaning and moaning in that way, Sherlock wasn’t sure how much he could take before he ripped off his trousers and rutted against John’s skin.

John silenced himself quickly; he was aware that Sherlock was doing this as a favour and not for any personal or sexual reasons. He bit his lip to attempt to quell his sounds, but found that whimpers and moans forced their way past as Sherlock continued to stroke and play with his cock in an almost perfect replica of the way he did it himself.

“Fo-Focus on the head,” John groaned, his back arching from the bed as Sherlock’s sinfully long fingers wrapped around his tip, to stroke and glide using the plentiful precum which John was leaking without embarrassment. Sherlock’s hands were slick with John’s juices, and he fought the urge to suck on his fingers like a common harlot.

“I-I won’t last much longer,” John insisted, his eyes clamping shut almost painfully as his testicles slowly tightened and pulled up to his body in preparation. He refused to think of Sherlock, thanking the powers that be for his own lack of stamina and a quick orgasm and instead, opened his eyes to stare at Sherlock’s white hands.

Sherlock looked down sadly at his hands; he didn’t want the encounter to be over so soon but if he slowed his pace, John would get suspicious and possibly angry. The declarations of “I’m not gay” would soon start and result in neither of them orgasming, and them becoming prickly and annoyed with one another for the next few days. So, Sherlock continued at his blistering pace, wanking John hard and fast, and adding a twist at the top to ensure he stimulated all parts of John’s anatomy as he simply sat back to watch what he hoped to be a spectacular ending.

“Oh God,” John groaned, his eyes rolling back. “Oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Sherlock’s arm was burning with the strain of maintaining the speed and angle for so long, but he refused to stop as John teetered on the edge of his climax. The detective watched enraptured as John repeated the same words over and over, a desperate plea to Sherlock who tried to fulfil his promise.

_DontStopDontStopDontStopDontStopDontStop ohhhh fuckkkk._

Sherlock braced himself and flicked his eyes between John’s face and cock, watching the tiny facial features appear as he reached his orgasm. His cock twitched in Sherlock’s hand and then he was coming with a wail which Sherlock was sure woke the entire street.

John’s spine arched and his head fell back as he cried through his orgasm, waves of pleasure flooding his body as his craved orgasm finally hit. He could feel the first shot hit his cheek, followed by countless other wet streams covering his skin, T-shirt and Sherlock’s bedding as he writhed and panted. Sherlock stroked him through wordlessly, coaxing the remaining drops onto John’s abdomen before dropping his cock back against his skin.

“I’ll just… wash my hands,” Sherlock mumbled, standing up and immediately turning his body to hide his obvious arousal. He walked through to his bathroom and closed the door; taking out his cock he replayed the moment of John’s orgasm in his mind, watching his best friend once more reach his peak after a week of celibacy. Sherlock pulled on his own cock, marvelling at how wet and sticky his pants were from the precum that'd soaked through to his pyjama bottoms, and it didn’t take long before he was biting on his other hand to stifle the noise as he caught his release in his palm.

Running the tap, he washed away the evidence of his base needs, and quickly soaked a flannel in warm water before checking his reflection. His cheeks were pink and his eyes sparkling, but hopefully John was too blissed out to realise Sherlock’s obvious aroused giveaways. Carrying the flannel through to the bedroom, he found John in the same position, lightly dozing with a ridiculous smile on his face. Sherlock’s stomach flipped but he quickly trampled it down as he walked to John’s side and began to clean the pools of cum from his skin.

“Fank yoo,” John grumbled, his mind completely white and fuzzy due to the orgasmic delight which Sherlock had provided.

“You’re very welcome,” Sherlock shrugged, wiping away the last of the semen before returning the flannel to the bathroom sink.

“You can stay there tonight if you like? I don’t mind taking your bed and seeing to Abigail,” Sherlock continued as he returned to the bed. “I’ve put her milk in the fridge so it’s ready.”

“No – It’s good – I’ll go,” John groaned, the thought obviously easier said than done.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Sherlock grinned, as he sat beside John on the bed and pulled out his medical textbook.

* * *

 

It had become dark in the room whilst John napped and Sherlock read; both kept their ear open for Abigail’s snuffling but enjoyed the sensations of closeness as they shared the same bed in a completely platonic way.

“Have you done that before?” John asked, turning on his side and looking over at Sherlock who stopped reading.

“Pleasure somebody?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah…” John trailed off.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock admitted, “I worked on a theft case in Hampstead Heath.”

“Okayyy,” John smiled.

“The suspect used the gloryholes in the public lavatories. As he was giving hand or oral relief to men, he was also slipping his hand into their pockets and stealing their wallets. It was a flawless system, really. Nobody is going to go to the police and tell them their wallet was stolen as they were being pleasured,” Sherlock grinned. “I heard about it and decided to investigate.”

“You didn’t…” John trailed off but gestured crudely, making Sherlock smirk.

“No. I just watched,” Sherlock admitted. “I was considered something of a twink back then.”

“Jesus,” John laughed. “And the criminal?”

“Oh, him? I got Lestrade to arrest him, although the DI wasn’t happy getting his picture in the paper during that arrest.”

The two men chuckled happily whilst enjoying the serene moment.

“Is what Moriarty called you true then?” John asked before kicking himself mentally. Sherlock had always avoided that line of questioning before and John didn’t want to ruin their companionable chat.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked, frowning at John.

“No. Not at all. Not to me, at least,” John shrugged quickly, “I just wondered.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, picking his textbook back up and pretending to read. “How old were you?”

“You mean you can’t deduce every sexual encounter I’ve ever had?” John smiled challengingly.

“I could, I just don’t want to,” Sherlock shrugged. “Plus, we’re bonding, aren’t we? We’ve had a lovely evening in with food, TV shows and masturbation.”

John laughed heartily and settled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I was nineteen, she was seventeen. She was called Donna and was the sister of my friend. We went to a local disco and decided to do it.”

“Romantic,” Sherlock quipped.

“We couldn’t go back to mine, and her dad didn’t like my dad so I wasn’t allowed at her place so we went to the local park,” John admitted with a blush. “I'd carried a condom in my wallet for ages, and after a bit of kissing and groping we tried it on the grass verge outside the play area.”

“Wow, you charmer, John Watson.”

“Anyway, I put it in and she cried… not just a little ouch and cry but full on sobs with snot bubbles. I ended up pulling out and walked her home with her sniffling. We didn’t try again.” John shook his head. “Her brother tried to fight me because of that.”

“I’m so upset that I’m missing out on those sorts of encounters,” Sherlock joked, turning his head and grinning at his friend.

“It can be amazing when it's right,” John shrugged sadly, “It’s just finding that connection with somebody.”

“I’ve never found anybody I have a connection with, I’ve never met anybody I wanted to be friends with,” Sherlock sighed sadly. “Or rather, they didn’t want to be friends with me.”

“You’re friends with me. Best friends, you could get anyone you wanted,” John smiled reassuringly.

_Except the one person I want,_ Sherlock thought sadly.

“I’m tired, I should sleep,” Sherlock insisted, as he put down the textbook and climbed under the covers which still smelt so strongly of John's body, arousal and semen.

“Oh. Okay then. Goodnight, Sherlock,” John smiled as he rolled from the bed and out of the door, stopping silently and returning to the doorjamb to look at his best friend. “You’ve been amazing, Sherlock, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock blushed, turning his back to the door and shuffling down the bed so John couldn’t see the traitorous tears collecting in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is the second anniversary of my last spinal surgery! Happy Birthday to my Lumbar-Peritoneal shunt! 
> 
> To celebrate, here is more angsty smut with more angst!

**I no longer can rely**   
**on a friend who once kept me alive**   
**and you won't see me take a stand**   
**'cause I'm not special but it helped to know that someone thinks I am**   
**and god its weird**

**Scott Matthew - Abandoned.**

* * *

“I’m telling you, it was Ivor,” Sherlock insisted over the phone, one finger in his mouth as he nibbled at the skin around his nail. “I don’t care what his alibi is, it’s wrong.”

John walked into the room with Abigail in his good arm and looked over at his best friend. He placed Abbie into her bouncer and wandered to the kettle, clicking it on before starting on two mugs of tea.

“If you’re going to be dramatic about it then I will end our contract,” Sherlock sighed. “You asked for my help and I am giving it to you.”

John listened intently as he carried Sherlock’s mug first, before returning for his own and settling into his chair.

“Thank you. Payments can be made via cheque,” Sherlock grumbled, before disconnecting the call and looking over at John with a smile. “You’re up early.”

“Hmm,” John shrugged. “Who was that? You have a case?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and sneered, “Fourth this morning. Came in from the blog.”

“You never take ones from the blog. They don’t fall high on your boredom scale,” John smiled.

“Well, I can’t exactly leave the house and leave you and Abigail alone and we still need the money,” Sherlock grumbled.

John winced at the thought that Sherlock was staying around due to his inability to care for his own daughter and felt the anger rising slowly. Trampling it down, the doctor sighed and looked at Abbie who was happily bouncing.

“The health visitor will be around today for a weigh-in,” John explained as he sipped at his drink. “They’ve pretty much left us alone but now she’s six weeks they want to do a quick check to see how she is.”

“Fine,” Sherlock shrugged. “Do you want me to be here?”

“You can stay if you like, but don’t feel like you need to,” John mumbled, feeling the frosty atmosphere between them suddenly. “Everything alright?”

Sherlock nodded and stood to his full height, before walking to his bedroom and closing the door firmly.

* * *

The detective threw himself down onto his bed with a flourish; his mind palace was quivering with irritation at his intrusive thoughts, and had resulted in the low level nausea which Sherlock hadn’t experienced since his night in Prague shortly after the fall.

He had been on the hunt for one of Moriarty’s minions who was masquerading as a wealthy hotelier; Sherlock had taken on one of his disguises and rented a room for the night, waiting until the guests had all settled into sleep before sneaking up to the penthouse apartment where the man resided. Sherlock had picked the lock and turned his head to smile at John, remembering sadly that John wasn’t there and he was truly alone. He opened the door and was attacked by the assassin who quickly gained the upper hand. Sherlock fought back, clawing and employing every trick in his knowledge of various martial arts to subdue the man until he could tie him up and have a proper _chat_ with him.

After learning all of the information he could, Sherlock injected the criminal with a syringe of dirty heroin he had cooked up himself. Watching the man’s eyes roll back had caused a chip from his humanity to fall away, without John there to put it back. He cleaned up after himself and positioned the body accordingly before sneaking back to his own room and lying on the expensive mattress, thinking of home and John.

It had become clear to Sherlock that he had an attraction to John very early on; from that very first night in Angelo’s, Sherlock had found the doctor handsome and kind. He was genuinely interesting, whereas other people of average intelligence normally bored Sherlock within seconds. The fact that John seemed rather pleased to be in Sherlock’s presence didn’t hinder their friendship either and eventually, Sherlock felt feelings he had never known before. Lying on the bed in Prague, he entered his mind palace and enjoyed the sensations of being surrounded by John’s warmth and scent.

_He desperately missed home._

But now, at Baker Street with John, it felt different. The need to be around John was becoming harder to ignore, as was the arousal which seemed to lodge itself in his lower abdomen whenever John was close. The help which he had provided last night had been one of the happiest moments of his life, and he hoped that John would continue accepting his care.

Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson welcoming the Health Visitor up the stairs and into the flat, where John met her and began to chat quietly. Sherlock could hear vague moments of the conversation but rolled onto his front and retreated further into his mind palace, finding Redbeard and the younger Mycroft and enjoying their company as they ran around the fields which surrounded the Holmes manor.

* * *

 

“So, how is she?” The woman asked, lifting the baby and cooing softly.

“She’s fine, eating and sleeping well,” John smiled proudly. “She’s coming on a treat”

“And how are you?” She asked softly, her greying hair and plump bosom immediately relaxing John. Her soft voice reminded him of his own beloved Grandmother before she had died, and he found that he was filling up with tears. “Oh, Dr Watson, forgive me. What a foolish question.”

“No. No, it’s fine,” John sniffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“Nonsense,” she tutted and put a hand over his. “It’s an overwhelming time, a newborn is hard enough but adding grief into it is harder.”

John didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t crying for his dead wife, but rather for himself and his confused mind.

“Things will improve in time,” she soothed gently. “I understand you have some help from friends? A Mr Holmes?”

“Sherlock,” John smiled and nodded. “He’s been brilliant whilst I’m, well… incapacitated.”

“Good,” she nodded. “It’s good you have the support there.”

“I feel useless,” John admitted, surprised that he had spoken so frankly. “I can’t hold her and feed her, I can’t change her or bathe her without help. I can’t even push her buggy.”

“You only have…” she pulled open her file and looked down at her notes, “two more weeks until your cast comes off. It will fly past,” she reassured him with a warm smile. “You need to communicate with your friend and you’ll feel better.”

John nodded and sighed, “You’re right.”

“You know where I am if you need me,” she smiled as she placed Abigail on the scales and took details of her recent weight gain and growth rates. “Oh, she’s doing well.”

“Good. That’s good,” John nodded, but he was already focussed on the conversation he would need to have later with Sherlock.

* * *

 

Days passed by with relative peace as Sherlock, John and Abigail muddled through. John was still in his cast and Sherlock was still anxiously over-cautious with the baby but all in all, it had become surprisingly natural and _normal_ around Baker Street.

John, however, was struggling with his need for orgasmic relief. A week had passed since Sherlock had helped him with his pesky erection, and the urge for climax was mounting once more. John had attempted to take care of it himself in both the shower and bedroom, he had even turned onto his front and held a pillow to his cock to thrust against, but he was too self conscious to enjoy the sensation and instead felt foolish for having to rely on the method. The doctor attempted to put all thoughts from his mind so not to make Sherlock aware of his discomfort; something which was seemingly impossible when living with the most observant man in the world.

“You’re having difficulty again,” Sherlock commented, as he handed John his cup of tea and a slice of toast for supper. They had spent the day together attempting to pull apart the intricate web of a fraud case which had come in over the blog, and had collapsed exhausted into their chairs before leaving for bed.

“It’s fine,” John gestured sadly. “I can survive.”

“John,” Sherlock flushed and looked away before meeting his friends eyes. “I’ve already said that I don’t mind helping and I do hate repeating myself.”

“Abigail’s in bed,” John mumbled, his good arm putting down his tea to rub at the back of his neck.

“My room then,” Sherlock smiled, putting down the tea and standing up, his eyes meeting John’s in a blistering hot look before he walked away and left John cold and alone in the empty room.

When John had pulled himself together enough to walk, he wandered through to Sherlock’s room and smiled at the setting. The detective had pulled back the sheets and taken off his robe, leaving him clad only in pyjama bottoms and a ratty grey T-shirt he used for sleeping. John awkwardly sat in the middle of the bed and folded his hands together. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked to his best friend's side with a long suffering sigh. “Pants off.”

John nodded his understanding and shimmied his trousers and boxers off; his cock wasn’t exactly flaccid but it wasn’t hard either and lay against his thigh, as Sherlock reached for the bottle of lubricant from his drawer. Slicking his fingers, Sherlock ran them up and down John’s hot skin, feeling every ridge and bump smoothing out as the shaft began to plump under his touch.

“Just think about jiggling breasts or bottoms or whatever it is you dream of,” Sherlock grinned devilishly as he rolled back John’s foreskin.

_You. I think of you,_ John wanted to admit, but pursed his lips as he rocked his hips back and forth into Sherlock’s hand.

“What do you think of?” John groaned, his eyes rolling back before meeting Sherlock’s for an observant look.

“Erm… the usual I suspect,” Sherlock blushed. “I like muscles, strong calves and biceps.”

John swallowed hard and nodded, “On a man?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock huffed, his second hand moving to cup John’s bollocks again.

“And you’ve never…?” John trailed off, replacing his words with a throaty moan as Sherlock’s thumb ran across his frenulum.

“No,” Sherlock shrugged. “Never saw the need. I have a perfectly good imagination and right hand,” he smiled.

“Hmm, don’t I know it.” John arched from the bed and let his eyes flutter closed as he raced towards his climax. “Could… you slow down a little?”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, and slowed his hand, teasing John with long, slow strokes.

John keened and gripped the bedding with his good hand, as Sherlock’s hands worked in perfect synchronicity to bring him closer and closer to relief. John’s breathing hitched as Sherlock’s long and talented fingers slipped further behind his balls, stroking his perineum and entrance. John froze and groaned as Sherlock’s finger seemed to circle his hole before return to the safety of his balls.

“Do that again. Please,” John begged. It had been so long since he had indulged in anal play, and the thought of Sherlock’s dexterous fingers inside him had caused his heartbeat to skyrocket.

Sherlock followed the instruction and traced his fingers back down the slightly hairy cleft of John’s buttocks; the pad of his finger stopped over the hole as he watched John’s eyes flutter closed, as he bit his lower lip with a nod. Sherlock could only inhale shakily as he slowly pressed his index finger into the tight knot, feeling the burning heat from John’s insides. Sherlock’s own cock ached in his pyjama bottoms, a spot of wetness leaking out over the thin fabric as his prick started to pump out streams of precum in a desperate attempt to lubricate itself for penetrating John. Sherlock removed his hand from John’s cock to stroke himself roughly, attempting to stop the ache before replacing his long fingers around the shaft, teasing the flowing precum out of the slit.

“Twist to your left,” John whispered, his voice completely broken and desperate.

Sherlock blinked at the instruction but quickly deduced what John wanted; turning his finger he allowed the pad of his digit to brush against John’s prostate, watching as the doctor tensed and opened his mouth in a silent scream.

“Was that too much?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“No. Again. Please. So close,” John begged, the need for full sentences seemingly forgotten.

Sherlock carefully caressed the bundle of nerves, watching John’s face for oversensitivity or pain, but finding only pure delight as John gripped the bedding and thrust his hips back and forth in an attempt to get more of Sherlock’s touch. The detective flicked his wrist, managing a steady rhythm on both prostate and cock as he watched John’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth open wide.

“Fuck, yes, Sherlock please, fuck yes,” John whined, his voice louder and more desperate than Sherlock had ever heard.

The younger man could feel his own need climbing to dizzying heights; leaning forward, he rubbed his arm across the bulge in his pants and saw stars as his orgasm rushed at him unexpectedly. A small whimper and squeak escaped his lips as rope after rope of sticky cum coated the insides of his underwear and pyjamas. John was too far gone to notice, and soon followed Sherlock with a much louder wail as cum covered his stomach, chest, groin and Sherlock’s hand. John shuddered in pleasure, his muscles tensing and locking as Sherlock worked him through his orgasm, whilst slowly removing his finger from John’s insides and wiping it on the wet towel he had already positioned as they entered. John blinked his eyes and attempted to focus the room, only to drop his head back onto the pillow wordlessly.

“That good, eh?” Sherlock blushed, wondering how he was going to escape to the bathroom without John realising.

“Hmmnngg,” John nodded before nuzzling further into Sherlock’s pillow.

“Ah-ah,” Sherlock chastised. “You’re all filthy. I’m not changing my sheets again,” he clucked.

John mumbled something in reply and gestured crudely at Sherlock who smiled and stood, covering his messy trousers with the towel. Grabbing a pair of fresh underwear he wandered to the bathroom and began the shower. Climbing under the water, he sighed as the heat mixed with his post orgasmic afterglow to relax him further.

“I’ll just have a wee,” John mumbled as he walked to the toilet in just his pants. Sherlock startled and immediately turned his head, almost slipping on the plastic of the tub as he attempted to cover himself. John raised an eyebrow and laughed before his eyes were drawn further down Sherlock’s body; Sherlock had turned his back to John in an attempt to hide his flaccid cock, but had involuntary shown off the scars which covered his back.

“What in the fuck?” John asked, all personal needs forgotten as he walked closer to Sherlock who was still covering himself with a small flannel.

“John, I’m attempting to shower,” Sherlock began, trying to sound confident but instead, sounding small and nervous.

“Sherlock, what happened to your back?” John whispered, his eyes filling with tears as he extended a hand and touched a thick and long scar which ran from one side of Sherlock’s shoulder blade to the other.

“I had a disagreement,” Sherlock muttered.

“With a fucking propeller? What the hell happened?” John asked before lowering his voice to his soft _nice-doctor_ voice. “Sherlock?”

“Let me finish up and we’ll talk,” Sherlock nodded slowly, and watched as John began to turn back for the bedroom. “John?”

“Hmm?” the doctor answered, his eyes wide and his face pale.

“You still need to pee."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again people! This chapter is about Sherlock's time away. It may have certain triggers for torture/violence so please be careful. It may also be very worthwhile to watch the link below from 21.28ish. It'll help create the atmosphere (Also, if you look at Eugene [in the yellow shirt] he could almost be Sherlock's body double!). I'll link when it's best to start watching. 
> 
> Mentions of a Roma Gypsy camp. Although I have an interest in Gypsy culture and music, I am not part of their community. If I have said anything offensive or used words carelessly it was not my intention. Please let me know! Names and locations chosen at random.
> 
> [Pied Piper Of Hutzovina](https://youtu.be/k2w6iUeZsaY?t=21m28s)
> 
>  
> 
>  

_Up and down, like everyone_   
_Walked the earth in lonesome cry_   
_But when the sun comes up_   
_When the sun comes up_   
_It will be on your side_

Gogol Bordello -[ Sun is on my side. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2vBpPCa-R8)

* * *

**3 years earlier**

Sherlock climbed from the stifling heat of the bus which had taken him from the tiny international airport in Uzhhorod; his shirt stuck to his back from the heat of the bodies pressed against him as the bus trundled through endless seas of green fields. He was exhausted, the night flight from Berlin had not allowed him to sleep at all whilst he perused over the various folders of intelligence which he had gathered from the terror cell in Germany. He swayed slightly as the bus hit a pothole in the road and nudged against the person beside him, a scary looking man with a large bushy moustache and tattoos which showed he was an ex-prisoner from one of the many Siberian prisons.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock apologised in perfect Russian, nodding his freshly shaved head in apology.

The man stared at Sherlock before looking away; an awkward silence permeated the air between them until the man turned back.

“You have an accent,” he whispered to Sherlock. “English, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are,” Sherlock replied tensely.

“I don’t think I am, Mr Holmes,” the man smiled before handing Sherlock a slip of paper. Mycroft’s handwriting so familiar that it made Sherlock’s heart skip slightly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man and lifted an eyebrow, “Do I know you?”

The man shook his head but held out his hand. “Maksym Tkach. You helped my brother in London.”

Sherlock shook the offered hand and frowned. “A case or…”

“He was on the streets. He went by the name Gregor in London,” Maksym explained with a sad smile. “Was offered a job and sneaked himself in illegally but the job was a fraud. He found himself on the streets without a friend, a knowledge of the language and then he got pneumonia. You and Dr Watson helped him without question.”

Sherlock’s heart beat once more at the mention of John’s name but he trampled it down quickly and efficiently to concentrate on the man in front of him. “How is Gregor?”

Maksym smiled and nodded his head. “He’s home now. As a trade for helping you, your brother returned him home with enough money to buy a small home for his wife and children.”

The bus stopped at a small clearing on the dusty road, and Sherlock found himself being dragged up by Maksym who led him gently down the walkway towards the exit. With a thank you to the driver, the two men climbed from the bus and stood taking deep breaths of the cool and crisp air; Sherlock pulled on his backpack and followed behind Maksym who took them through a clump of bushes to a hidden away car.

“Let’s get you settled, I imagine you’re exhausted,” the Ukrainian smiled, watching as Sherlock’s eyes began to droop as soon as he settled down into the comfortable seat. Although the car was well past its quality days, it was still the most comfortable thing that Sherlock had experienced in months and his body ached with the need to sleep.

“You relax, pryyatel,” Maksym said in heavily accented English. “We’ll be there soon.”

* * *

 

Sherlock dreamt that he was back at Baker Street; he was smoking a cigarette at his bedroom window to ensure John didn’t catch him. Blowing circular rings from hisĺ mouth he watched as they got larger and larger before fizzling away to nothing.

“Wake up,” a voice sounded from his left hand side, startling him awake, “we’re here.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes and looked out at what looked like a small shanty town; his gaze rested on the small children running alongside the car shirtless, wearing only tiny shorts and shoes as they shouted at the driver.

“My children,” Maksym smiled. “Prepare to be interrogated.”

Sherlock returned the smile softly and rubbed at his eyes, “Where are we?”

“Svaljava Gypsy camp, near the Carpathian mountains,” the man answered as he pulled the car to a stop and pulled on the break. “You’ll be safe here. You’re a friend to the community thanks to your care of Gregor.”

“I don’t want to put anybody in danger,” Sherlock whispered, as he watched the children finally catch up to the car and crowd around the doors.

Maksym raised an eyebrow but smiled sadly. “With all due respect, most of the country here pretend we don’t exist. They’re not going to come looking for trouble.”

“PAPA!” A voice from outside the window called, and Sherlock watched with a smile as a girl of no more than six pressed her nose to the glass, her cute button nose squashing up to look like a snout,

“Olha!” Maksym sighed. “Away now, psst! Get home with you!”

The girl pouted and stamped her foot but quickly turned to leave, giving Sherlock a haughty stare as she glared back.

“Ignore her,” Maksym grumbled, shaking his head. “She’s a teenager trapped in the body of a child. Come on, let’s get you inside and fed.”

Sherlock grabbed his bag and climbed from the car; following Maksym he watched as the man interacted with all of his children in Russian, letting them ask him questions about where he had been before they immediately turned their attention to Sherlock with a quizzical look.

“Who are you?” One asked with a tilted head.

“Nobody,” Sherlock shrugged, answering in perfect Russian, “just a man.”

“You’re not Roma,” a larger child added, his arms crossed across his chest.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head.

“Then why are you in our camp?” The boy asked, stepping closer and attempting to intimidate Sherlock. Maksym, who had been otherwise engaged with a child turned and noticed, walking to the boy's side and grabbing his ear tightly. “Hush, idiot boy. Did you feed the goats?”

The boy nodded as he looked between his father and the stranger before lowering his eyes, “Sorry Mister.”

“They’re suspicious of outsiders,” Maksym explained as he walked alongside Sherlock. “We don’t get visitors here and if we do, it’s only for trouble.”

Sherlock stayed silent as Maksym opened the door to one of the larger houses in a row. Extending his hand he showed Sherlock inside and called out for his wife; the woman entered and smiled, she was pretty and fairly young with red brown hair and a large smile. Her stomach was distended with pregnancy whilst she balanced an infant on her hip.

“Eugene will be staying with us,” Maksym said, looking over at Sherlock who recognised the name from the fake passport he had been given on the bus. He gave the woman a kiss on each cheek before taking a seat at the small kitchen table which rocked as Sherlock sat down.

“We don’t have much, but what we have we share,” Maksym explained as he ladled soup into a bowl and handed Sherlock a loaf of homemade bread. “Eat up.”

Sherlock grabbed the spoon and immediately gulped down the food; he hadn’t had a chance to grab anything between dismantling the Berlin cell and catching the flight and his stomach was rumbling with hunger. Maksym didn’t comment on the messy eating nor the ungentlemanly grunts as Sherlock enjoyed the food and the subsequent fullness after he had finished.

“You will sleep here. It’s not much,” Maksym’s wife blushed, “but I hope it’ll be okay.”

“It will be perfect,” Sherlock answered with a thankful smile, “thank you.”

* * *

 

The days passed quickly as Sherlock worked with Maksym to establish a timeline for moving on to the next stage of the plan. He reshaved his head and allowed a small amount of stubbled beard to grow on his chin to help disguise him incase of Moriarty’s spies working in the camp. He was leaving Maksym’s home when he heard the sounds of music coming from a communal area; intrigued, he walked over and stood watching as a small group of men played together with their accordion, guitars and violins. Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he looked at the instrument he had missed since leaving London; he recognised the music as traditional Romany Gypsy songs and tapped his foot along with the notes.

“Eugene!” Maksym’s neighbour called from his guitar. “Join us!”

Sherlock climbed the small fence and walked to the group as they launched into a song to which Sherlock knew the lyrics. The Svaljava gypsy’s were well known for their love of Salsa infused music which had interested the detective from the first moment he had heard it, and joining in with his newest friends he watched as the other men joined in with the lyrics.

Soon, the entire camp had turned up to sing along, including Maksym who smiled at Sherlock as he grabbed two spoons and began playing them against his knees whilst the children danced alongside. Sherlock laughed, his head thrown back as the mother of the group pulled him around to show him the traditional dance, her hands moving side to side as she nimbly jumped and turned whilst pulling Sherlock closer.

“Do not look now, the men at the well. They are the bad men,” she whispered before turning and throwing her head back in a laugh. Pulling Sherlock around she ensured he could see who she meant before twisting once more. “Be careful.”

Sherlock nodded and clapped as the song ended; Maksym clapped him on the shoulder before steering him back towards the house. “You need to leave, they know where you are now. You must go to Chita in Siberia, you will meet my cousin Orest who will help.” Sherlock nodded his understanding as he began packing his belongings into his backpack. Maksym ensured he had enough provisions to see him through his travels as they waited for darkness to fall over the camp, nervously counting each hour until the only light across the fields was the bright moon which shone above.

“Your map,” Maksym whispered, pointing to a circled spot. “This here is where you need to catch the bus. It’s not far. We’ll ensure you’re not followed.”

The detective grabbed Maksym’s hand and held it tight, his eyes meeting his friends for a long and shared look before he turned and left the small wooden door. He checked left and right before jumping the fence and rushing towards the main road, startling once when he heard a high pitched scream and the sounds of fighting. Sherlock’s stomach rolled as he imagined one of his new friends being hurt but he couldn’t go back, he had to continue his mission.

* * *

 

The bus stop was little more than a clearing at the side of the road; Sherlock dropped his backpack and grasped his water bottle, glugging down the contents with a happy sigh as the water quenched his thirst. Sitting himself down on the floor, he allowed himself to relax and breathe deeply as he imagined the task which was in front of him. The only part of the web left was in Serbia, however he wasn’t able to meet with his target until Mycroft sent word that it would be safe. Sherlock scratched at his scalp idly as he planned and plotted the measures he would have to take to ensure that the group was dismantled. Slipping into a light daze, he quickly ran through the information stored in his mind palace, his concentration focussed on the information and not his surroundings.

His vision went black as a hood was thrown over his head and punches rained down on his head and spine; a cry of agony escaped his lips as his attackers caught his eyesocket with a well aimed punch which had Sherlock seeing stars. The detective felt his mind slipping further and further away before he passed out cold.

He awoke sometime later, shivering and wet on a concrete floor. He had no knowledge of where he was or how he had got there; his face was still covered with the black hood and his arms were tied behind his back tightly and chafed with every movement. Sherlock trampled down the panic which was rising in his chest, but focussed on deducing the area with what senses he still had access to.

_The sun is shining on my right side, there is a breeze coming from south east. I can smell food being prepared and a scent of pine and tree sap; birds are singing, I can hear the sound of guards speaking Russian._

Sherlock tested his bonds once more but found them sturdy and obviously well maintained; his stomach began to knot as terror rose like bile. Footsteps echoed around the room from his right hand side, and when Sherlock turned his head, he was surprised with a kick to the face which sent him sprawling onto the floor, blood streaming down his throat from the pain in his nose.

“You’re a difficult man to find,” the interrogator laughed. Sherlock could hear the mirth in his voice as he mumbled something to somebody else standing beside him. Sherlock attempted to strain his ears to hear, only to be kicked in the ribs. “Didn’t expect to find you scurrying around with the rats of society.”

Sherlock stayed silent; his ears were ringing and he felt dizzy as the interrogator obviously became bored with Sherlock’s lack of response. With a click of his fingers, Sherlock felt the rush of air as men came towards him and began pummelling him to the ground.

* * *

 

Weeks passed with no respite from the beatings and cruel taunts. Sherlock was forced to stay naked, his hair growing longer and longer to become mattered with his own blood and bodily fluids ( _as well as some of the guards. They enjoyed urinating on Sherlock as punishment)._ Sherlock could only retreat into his mind palace and find John, his John, with his comfortable cardigans and permeating scent of tea which followed him around regardless. Sherlock smiled at his friend, their eyes meeting as he remembered them running through the streets of London or relaxing in Baker Street. He lived for the moments when he could escape into his mind palace and spend time with John; the only joy and happiness in his miserable life.

Sherlock had no idea how long he had been tortured; his captors rarely took off his hood and it was almost impossible to tell the time using the method of following the sun around the room with only touch; the detective had recognised that his captors usually threw in a rancid chunk of bread and glass of dirty water each night at roughly 7pm which allowed him to guess at times and dates. He had retreated into his mind palace and had become distracted by the memory of John smiling at him after a scathing retort to Anderson when his torturers returned. Sherlock didn’t notice until the burning pain of a knotted whip lashed against his spine and tore open his skin. He pulled himself from his memories with a scream as the man continued raining blows onto him; with no chance to defend himself, he was forced to curl in on himself, hoping to lessen the pain.

The hood was pulled from his eyes and Sherlock blinked cautiously, looking around the room and attempting to catalogue any weakness to help his escape. His eyes focussed instead on the second man in the room; the beaky nose and burning intense gaze startled Sherlock into believing he was hallucinating. He had finally broken and succumbed to mental instability as he looked across the room and met his brother’s eyes for the first time in two years.

The brothers shared a look before Sherlock whispered something in Russian; the man holding the whip ceased his flogging and moved to Sherlock’s head, listening to the detective’s soft whispers. It wasn’t hard to read the man’s story; a cheating wife, an unhappy career path. It was dreadfully dull and uninteresting but Sherlock’s heart fluttered wildly when the man left, his nose in the air as he ran from the room to confront his cheating wife. Sherlock knew he would never make it, the special forces would catch him before he left the compound which immediately made him feel better.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered sadly, moving to stroke the curls from his brother’s pale and filthy face.

The younger man nodded and allowed Mycroft to untie his arms, crying out in agony as the blood flow returned to his tingling limbs after days of being tied up. The sounds of men approaching the room with automatic weapons and radios was almost overwhelming to Sherlock, who allowed silent tears to fall down his cheeks as Mycroft helped him wordlessly to his shaky feet. Supporting his brother, Mycroft walked him out of the pit of despair he had called home and began the journey back to London and back to John.

* * *

 

“I didn’t crack,” Sherlock said defiantly.

“Did they all die?” John asked, wide eyed and pale faced.

Sherlock gave a look which screamed _obviously_ but he didn’t speak out loud; instead he simply looked down at the floor and picked at his long fingers. “My brother doesn’t like fieldwork or hardship, but he travelled at his own risk and wiggled his way into the gang until they trusted him. Then he sent the SAS in to kill everyone and rescue me.”

“And the gypsies?” John probed.

“Mycroft helped the camp. Ensured they had clean water and food for the next few years,” Sherlock smiled and nodded, the first emotion he had shown since he returned from the shower. “You’re dealing with the saddest people in the world. Their sadness is so overwhelming but there is this shot of optimism which makes them stand above from everyone else in the world and I’m glad we could help them.”

John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls; unaware of the intimate feel of the gesture as he pulled Sherlock closer for a hug and ran his good hand up and down Sherlock’s spinal column. His fingers traced over every lump of scar tissue which sent a wave of nausea through John and caused Sherlock to shudder in revulsion. If he ever had any chance with John Watson it was certainly gone now, John wouldn’t want to be with somebody so broken and scarred.

“Christ,” John whispered.

“He got me home. I wouldn’t be here without him,” Sherlock mumbled, ashamed that he couldn’t give Mycroft the kudos he deserved out loud.

“I am so sorry,” John croaked, emotion sweeping over him.

“I’m home, John,” Sherlock replied. “Everything will be okay.”

“Abigail needs her bottle,” John whispered sadly, his fingers moving to stroke Sherlock’s hair again. “Why don’t you come up to my bedroom and we’ll carry on talking?”

“I'd rather… If it's okay with you I'd rather just sleep,” Sherlock responded tearfully. “It’s been a bit overwhelming.”

“Course. Of course, anything,” John nodded. “You don’t have to be alone, though.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock gave a sad smile before climbing into the bed and pulling the covers up to his neck. “Goodnight ”

“Night, Sherlock,” John smiled, walking from the bedroom and closing the door behind him. He managed to get into the living room before falling onto the sofa and pushing the union jack pillow over his face as he sobbed tears of horror and regret.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud of this chapter. It's my favourite one so far <3
> 
> There is a slight ick with a messy nappy towards the end of the chapter. It's nothing graphic or disgusting but thought id warn you. 
> 
> Please comment! It makes me happy.

_Fade into you_  
_Strange you never knew_  
_Fade into you_  
_I think it's strange you never knew_

_Mazzy Star - _Fade into you_  
_

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” John called from the living room, startling Sherlock out of his mind palace and forcing the detective to wander through to where his best friend stood. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent questioning as John pottered around the kitchen whilst keeping an eye on Abigail in her chair. “Harry is coming over tonight for dinner. I was going to cook but I can’t do it alone.”

“Why is she coming?” Sherlock asked with a frown, he wasn’t Harry’s biggest fan and she wasn’t his. Sherlock was confused by the social cues he was supposed to follow when believing her bullshit about being sober. He knew that she was still drinking and Harry knew that he knew; an issue which had caused a large disturbance the last time the older Watson visited.

“Because she wants to meet Abigail,” John frowned. “Are you going to behave? I can’t be arsed with any drama.”

“I didn’t start the last argument!” Sherlock insisted, his eyes burning with intense rage. “It was her fault.”

“You told everyone she had taken to drinking hand sanitizer,” John sighed. “I’m not surprised she was annoyed.”

“It was true. You would have noticed if you observed,” Sherlock grumbled, picking at the roots of a nearby onion on the kitchen counter.

“Regardless, I just want a quiet night in with my sister, baby daughter and best friend.”

“I’ll ask Angelo to provide the food, that way we don’t have to worry about cooking or stress,” Sherlock smiled softly. “Just give me a list and I’ll arrange everything.”

* * *

 

Clara and Harry arrived just before 7pm with a smile and a bottle of midrange wine. Harry looked healthy and beaming as she hugged her brother and nodded a hello to Sherlock who was friendly in his welcome to Baker Street, taking their coats and inviting them into the living room where Abigail waited.

“Oh, there she is!” Harry cooed, rushing over and grabbing the baby much to Sherlock’s nervousness. The detective watched her intensively as she hugged the baby close and sat on the sofa beside Clara, stroking the baby's face and mumbling sweet words.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to the funeral,” Clara smiled softly.

“You didn’t come to the wedding either,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he glared at the older sibling. “Not a big surprise you didn’t bother turning up.”

Harry returned Sherlock’s glare before turning her attention to John and his cast covered arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Annoyed with this thing to be honest,” John smiled, continuing setting the table with a pitcher of water and the silverware borrowed from Mrs Hudson, “but it’ll be off soon.”

Harry turned from her brother and fumbled for her phone; taking photos of Abigail, she asked Clara to take some of her and the baby together to frame. Her eye was drawn to Sherlock who was still lurking beside the child nervously.

“I’m not going to drop her or hurt her,” Harry insisted angrily, glaring at the detective. “She’s my niece."

Sherlock looked over at John who was humming as he turned to grab the crockery for their meal and then back to Harry. “I don’t want to fight with you. He’s been excited for this all day and I don’t want to ruin it.”

Harry blinked and looked at Clara. “Jesus, it’s finally happened.”

“What? What has?” Sherlock asked in confusion, his brows knitted with bewilderment.

“You and him.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

“Something is different. Something has changed; the old Sherlock wouldn’t have thought twice about upsetting him, me or anybody else. Suddenly you’ve become aware of what John needs, you’re thinking of him rather than yourself.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, about to make a cruel rebuttal before being interrupted by John’s happy voice. “Dinner’s ready.”

Placing Abigail in her moses basket, the foursome took their seats around the kitchen table and began to help themselves to the various dishes which Angelo had prepared earlier for them. John created a friendly atmosphere for them to talk, Clara and Harry filling him in on all of their gossip and family drama whilst John smiled and ate, occasionally looking over at Sherlock who seemed miles away in his own little world. John watched for a moment, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s peaceful face before realising he had an audience and Harry was staring at him with an upturned eyebrow.

“We’ll talk later about that,” John insisted with a fixed look, allowing no argument.

Harry held up her hands in mock surrender before returning to her pasta and anecdote about Aunty Jean and her cat Tiddles.

* * *

 

After Harry and Clara left the flat for their own home, Sherlock began washing the dishes and throwing away the rubbish from Angelo’s food they had secretly passed off as their own. John laid Abigail out on the sofa and fed her with his good arm whilst occasionally glancing over at Sherlock’s back as the detective washed the various pots and plates.

John had been suspicious of Harry’s motives when she mentioned that Abbie could do with a nappy change; the baby had been clean before they sat down for food but immediately, Sherlock had stood and excused himself to change the baby leaving John with his sister and sister in law.

“He’s in love with you,” Harry whispered to John.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” John had sneered. “He doesn’t think like that.”

“He doesn’t?” Harry rolled her eyes. “So he hasn’t practically wiped your arse for the last six weeks as well as your daughter's?”

“He… He’s helped me, yes. I’ve struggled with a lot of things since Mary but he’s helping,” John admitted with a soft nod.

“Why? Why is he helping?” Harry stared John down, unafraid to be beside her obviously frustrated brother.

“Because he’s my best friend? He wants me to be safe and happy,” John responded with a frown.

“Then he should have stayed away. Shouldn’t have returned from his exile.”

John’s face set angrily and Harry realised she had overstepped; Clara stepped between the siblings as a peacekeeper and nudged Harriet into apologising. The older Watson lowered her head and exhaled shakily, “I’m sorry Johnny, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. You shouldn’t,” John growled.

“I just worry. He’s obviously in love with you and something has changed. I don’t want you making a mistake,” Harry soothed, her hand trailing down John’s arm. John looked at her hand and took a step back to break the contact.

“I made a mistake by marrying Mary. I went back to her after Sherlock was hurt which was a massive mistake. If anything happens with Sherlock, it won’t be a mistake,” John insisted as he turned back to the house. “Text me when you get home so I know you made it okay.”

Harry began to talk only for John to open the black door and walk through, closing it without even looking back. Resting his head against the wallpaper which reminded him so much of the first case he participated in, he allowed his mind a moment of wistful remembrance before he walked up the stairs back to Sherlock’s side.

“That was enjoyable,” Sherlock smiled from his position at the sink; He could tell from John’s footsteps that he was upset or angry and decided to attempt to lighten the mood.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight Sherlock,” John mumbled as he walked towards the stairs.

“Do you not need help tonight?” Sherlock asked, hoping his voice was calm and steady.

“No,” John shook his head and walked up the stairs to his bedroom without looking back.

* * *

 

 _“Get off him!_ _” John screamed, rushing towards where Sherlock was being held by two men. He was intercepted by a third criminal who hit him in the stomach and forced him down to the ground where he could only look up and watch as Sherlock was punched again and again._

 _“I don_ _’t think so,_ _” the singsong voice echoed around John_ _’s head,_ _“Daddy_ _’s home and you_ _’ve been very naughty boys._ _”_

 _John stared at Moriarty and hoped that he could stop the bastard_ _’s heart with just a look. His anger was at boiling point as he looked at the criminal mastermind who was now standing beside Sherlock, stroking his curls softly from the sweat covered forehead._

 _“I think it_ _’s time to speak, Johnny Boy,_ _” Moriarty smiled, a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth as he continued stroking Sherlock._

 _“Don_ _’t touch him. Please,_ _” John begged, his tears flowing easily over his cheeks,_ _“he_ _’s the only man I_ _’ve ever loved._ _”_

 _Sherlock_ _’s eyes widened and looked over at John who held his gaze for long moments, attempting to express his feelings with eye contact only. Sherlock_ _’s soft smile caused John_ _’s stomach and heart to flutter as they gazed at one another._

 _“Love is only a chemical reaction,_ _” Moriarty whispered into Sherlock_ _’s ear, before dragging his knife across the detective_ _’s throat. Opening his skin and causing crimson blood to flood out over Sherlock_ _’s dust stained suit and the concrete floor._

_John suddenly was let go. He looked around the room and realised that he and Sherlock were alone; the detective was gurgling and desperately holding out his arms for John who rushed to his side and held him tight, whispering words of nonsense and reassurance as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding._

_“Don_ _’t leave me again. You can_ _’t leave me. I need you, we need you. The world needs Sherlock Holmes and I don_ _’t think I can survive this again,_ _” John was crying, his hands grabbing Sherlock tightly as he lowered his forehead to rest against the younger man's._

 _“You chose her._ _”_

 _Sherlock_ _’s last words echoed around the room before his breathing stopped and his eyes fluttered closed._

“Sherlock!” John screamed, his eyes opening wide as he scrabbled in the bedclothes and fell forwards off the edge of the bed. His eyes focussed as the door to his bedroom opened and Sherlock stepped inside.

A feeling of calm and reassurance swept over John as he stood and grabbed Sherlock tightly; ignoring that Sherlock was obviously barely awake and he himself was sweaty and crying hard. Running his fingers over Sherlock’s neck he checked for a cut or scar before relaxing into Sherlock’s cautious embrace.

“Come on now, let’s get back to bed,” Sherlock soothed, checking on Abigail as he passed and noticing that she was still fast asleep, despite the loud and startling noise. “Nightmare?”

John nodded sadly and allowed Sherlock to help him back into bed. “Stay with me? Just for a while.”

Sherlock smiled softly and sat with his back to the headboard and his long legs buried under the slightly sweat damp covers. John lay beside him; his mind still whirring as he attempted to calm his breathing and the nausea which lingered low in his stomach.

“The war?” Sherlock whispered, looking across at John.

“No,” John shook his head. “You. Dying.”

“Oh,” the detective looked down at his hands.

“Did I ever tell you about my dad?” John asked, taking a deep breath.

Sherlock shook his head and turned to face John, who obviously wanted to talk.

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” John shrugged. “I have a vague memory of him when I was about 4 but that could have been one of Harry’s memories she had told me about.”

Sherlock stayed silent as John continued.

“He left my mum when I was a baby, Harry was only three. He had met somebody else and she was pregnant and he decided he didn’t want to be with my mother anymore,” John sneered. “He moved three streets away from us but he didn’t bother visiting very often. It was mainly whenever my mum asked for money he would come around and take us out for the day in lieu of paying. He eventually left the other woman whilst she was still pregnant and found another victim.”

Sherlock frowned but remained quiet, occasionally flicking his eyes up to John's.

“I didn’t want to be like him,” John whispered, looking over at Abigail sleeping soundly. “I didn’t want to be a part time father. I couldn’t leave her pregnant like my father did.”

“I know,” Sherlock nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I didn’t choose her. I chose the baby,” John looked at Sherlock with desperation in his eyes. “You understand that, right?”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”

“It wasn’t you or her. If it was, you would win. Everytime.” John continued, grabbing Sherlock’s hand tight with his good hand. “Please believe me.”

“John, it’s alright. Shhh,” Sherlock soothed.

John looked in Sherlock’s eyes before down to his lips and back up again; the air in the room was suddenly sucked out and replaced with something heavier and more electric as they gazed at one another.

“You have to know… you must know… please know,” John whispered, his hands tightening around Sherlock’s fingers.

“I know John. I know,” Sherlock nodded with a bashful smile as John grinned. The pair began to giggle softly under their breath as John’s good hand moved itself to Sherlock’s cheek and stroked along the prominent cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, his breathing stuttering as John cupped his face and brought his lips forward, touching his thin lips to Sherlock’s plump ones and smiling into the embrace.

Their lips opened as their tongues touched for the first time; the sensations of hot, wet tongues caressing one another with no desperation was more intimate than anything John had ever shared with any partner previously. Pulling away, he stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone and met his best friend's gaze; Sherlock’s eyes were wide and almost black but sparkled with desire and happiness as John rested their foreheads together and smiled.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered before clamping his lips closed; ashamed at his brain for working too slowly to stop the endearment slipping.

“I love you too,” John replied.

The rustling sound of fabric caused both men to look over at Abigail who was kicking her legs and wiggling; watching her move the two men giggled at the sounds of the baby pooing. Their intimate and beautiful moment ruined by the bowels of a newborn.

“It’s your turn,” Sherlock grumbled, looking at John.

“Ah, still disabled unfortunately. It’s your job,” John smiled down at his cast before kissing Sherlock again.

“It’s a good job I love you and your daughter, John Watson,” Sherlock complained, as he stood up and walked to the baby’s cot.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.” John tilted his head and watched as Sherlock deposited the baby on the changing mat before grabbing the close by supplies.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t,” Sherlock nodded.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of fluff and angst.

_The sky is still blue,_

_The clouds come and go,_

_Yet something is different._

_Are we falling in love?_

_Julee Cruise – Falling_

* * *

“We should go to the park,” Sherlock said, as he popped on the kettle and made tea and Abbie’s bottle.

“If you like,” John shrugged.

“It’ll be nice, all of us together. You haven’t really left the house much since…” he trailed off.

John looked up from his newspaper and gave Sherlock a warning stare; the detective quietened as he shook the bottle to mix the formula together. John rubbed his face with his good hand and sighed, before dropping the newspaper to the table. “Okay, let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, the two men were walking side by side with Sherlock pushing the buggy in front of them; they chatted amicably and joked between themselves, their hands occasionally touching as they enjoyed the warm weather and the almost empty park. Their celebrity status had caused issues previously with them being harassed in the streets by people who wanted photos or autographs ( _although one cruel deduction from Sherlock was normally enough to send them scuttling away)_ but thankfully the area was almost deserted, with only a handful of people wandering around the various pathways or sitting by the pond. The pair laughed and joked with John looking up at the man he loved with a large grin as they found a bench close to the pond where they could talk and sit with Abigail on their knees.

“Are you excited to have your cast off?” Sherlock asked, rocking Abigail softly in his arms.

“I can’t bloody wait,” John sighed. “I can’t wait to have a proper shower.”

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled. “Do you mean a shower or a _shower shower?_ ” He gestured crudely in an imitation of a masturbating hand.

John blushed pink along his cheeks and ears before clearing his throat. “I think I’ll miss you doing it for me.”

Sherlock gave a half smile before turning to John in all seriousness. “I could. It wouldn’t be a good idea to strain yourself so soon after taking off the cast. You could hurt yourself.”

The doctor lifted an eyebrow and huffed a laugh, “I’ll think about it.”

The two men continued their walk around the park until Abigail lay asleep in her buggy, noisily sucking on her dummy as Sherlock and John talked without embarrassment or shyness; it was like the old days, before the fall and Mary. Calling into the Chinese on the way home, they stocked up on takeaway before returning home to watch crap action movies and drink a bottle of wine in celebration of John’s cast being removed the next day.

* * *

 

John awoke to Sherlock playing the violin; the mellow and dark notes usually signified that something was wrong or the detective was upset, however when John walked down the stairs he noticed instead that Sherlock was playing for Abigail who looked up puzzled with her big blue eyes.

“She’s confused by the notes, John!” Sherlock clapped, pointing to the baby with the bow. “Have you ever seen a cat chase a laser pen? That’s how she looks!”

“My child does not look like a confused feline,” John grumbled playfully under his breath as he clicked on the kettle and walked to Sherlock’s side. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded. “What time is Molly picking Abbie up?”

“Anytime now,” John replied as he pottered around the kitchen. “My appointment is at eleven which gives us plenty of time.”

Sherlock froze and cleared his throat before looking at John nervously “Are you sure she can’t just come with us?”

John sighed and rubbed his face; they had had the same argument for the last few days over Molly and Greg’s offer to babysit overnight; John had originally turned down their offer, insisting that he couldn’t be away from her for an hour but with Molly’s reassurance that he could trust them. John finally accepted their help; he wanted to spend an evening alone with Sherlock now that his arm was better and he didn’t want to worry about missing the sounds of his distressed daughter. John had spoken to Greg on the phone who had promised that _yes,_ he would have his gun and Taser handy in case of terroristic activities in his kitchen ( _Sherlock_ _’s ears had pricked up at hearing that and was grumpy with John for it being a false alarm)_ and that he had a daughter of his own so he understood John’s concern.

Sherlock smiled and put away his violin before picking up the baby and resting her against his flat chest. “You’re going to see Molly today,” he explained to the oblivious child. “Please ensure you don’t prefer her over me.”

John tutted and shook his head as Sherlock paced back and forth with the baby in his arms. “She’s a little bit annoying, she used to always wear too much perfume which affected my lab results and she was obsessed with eating. Always asking if I wanted to eat. Tedious.”

“She was asking you on a date,” John replied from the kitchen as he threw the teabags into the bin.

Sherlock gestured dismissively and rolled his eyes, “And then she turned up to the Christmas party and my goodness Abigail, you should have seen her!”

“Oi, bitchy,” John scowled. “If you’re going to act like a queen, then I’ll go to the appointment on my own.”

Sherlock actually looked hurt and grumbled under his breath as he heard the downstairs door open and a female voice stop to talk to Mrs Hudson. John wiped his hand on a teatowel and looked over at Sherlock, who had put the baby into her carrier and placed the hedgehog toy beside her.

“Don’t lose Johnny,” Sherlock warned in a whisper.

“Johnny?” John asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Obviously,” Sherlock grumbled as he turned his back to his friend.

“Why is the hedgehog named Johnny?”

“He looks like you,” Sherlock smiled and winked. John attempted to argue, but was interrupted by Molly and Greg entering the flat with a happy greeting. John looked at Sherlock who was stunned and looking between his two friends.

“Yes. We’re together,” Greg flushed, taking hold of Molly’s hand tightly.

“Congrats, mate,” John grinned, walking over to shake Greg’s hand before realising it was his broken one. “Oh...”

Greg laughed happily and slapped John on the shoulder, sharing a soft look of genuine friendship as John pressed a soft kiss to Molly’s cheek. “Are you sure babysitting won’t interrupt the honeymoon period?”

Molly blushed prettily and twisted herself back and forth on the heels of her feet. “Hush you.”

Sherlock had moved to grip Abigail’s carrier and gave it to Greg who grimaced at the weight. Molly took the supply bag and cooed down at the bundle now staring up at the couple.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful,” Molly cooed, touching Abbie’s nose.

“So, her feeding schedule is written inside along with the instructions on the milk,” Sherlock started, his feet automatically pacing as though he was explaining a crime scene. “She has nappies and cream incase her bum is sore. Spare clothes are at the bottom.”

“Sherlock—” John started, watching as Sherlock began gesturing.

“We won’t be more than a few hours. I have my mobile and John will have his. Mrs Hudson will have hers and if you need us desperately then contact Mycroft. He can send a car. I put in a list of local hospitals, clinics and walk in centres just incase.” He was beginning to breathe faster now, lost in his own mind.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, moving to cup the detective’s cheek and stop him pacing. Missing the look of shock which covered both Molly and Lestrade’s faces at the intimate gesture. “Molly is a doctor, she can handle a baby for a few hours.”

“Molly deals with dead people, John!” Sherlock insisted. “And Lestrade is a police officer. I’ve seen him knock a man to the floor with his elbow! He’s violent.”

Greg snorted a laugh and pointed at Sherlock who scowled.

“Sherlock, calm down,” John soothed softly. “I trust them to look after her, she’ll be okay.”

“Promise to call Mycroft if you need anything?” Sherlock begged, his eyes wide and scared.

“Of course,” Molly agreed, reaching out to squeeze both Sherlock and John’s hands. “We’ll see you in a little bit.”

* * *

 

John sighed as he clenched his fingers together before releasing them. He had missed being able to move them and the fresh air against his skin felt wonderful; Sherlock was also more relaxed due to the numerous swabs which were hidden in his great coat along with the sliver of plaster cast he had ‘rescued’ from the bin in order to experiment on. John refused to argue, but shook his head and laughed as he witnessed Sherlock rummaging around in hospital bins.

“I have twenty two missed calls from Mycroft," Sherlock gasped. “The baby?”

John checked his phone and noticed twelve on his. His stomach started to feel heavy as Sherlock called his brother back, uncaring of people surrounding him as he began to pace outside the hospital.

“Mycroft? Whats wrong? Is she okay?” Sherlock demanded.

John couldn’t hear the words being said but Sherlock’s face was a picture of confusion as he listened. “So it’s not about the baby?”

John released the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding as Sherlock stopped pacing and stood still. “Why did you call that many times? It’s irresponsible!”

Sherlock’s face paled slightly as he looked at John and then down at the floor. “I’ll get a copy.”

* * *

 

John looked over the headline and gaped at his friend with an open mouth.

**Two men and a baby.**

**Has Sherlock Holmes finally settled down?**

The air seemed to have been sucked from the atmosphere as John looked at the front page of a tabloid magazine; inbetween pictures of ( _perfectly natural)_ cellulite covered celebrities and sex scandals was a picture of Sherlock pushing a pram with John looking up at him during the walk in the park. The photograph had obviously been long lensed by a member of the paparazzi who had caught the ideal picture to out the new couple as John looked up lovingly at his best friend.

_John remembered the moment well. Sherlock had been telling him a story about how he once saw a frog close to the pond._

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, his stomach in knots as he looked at John’s reaction.

“For what?” John frowned in confusion. “Its not your fault.”

“I just… nevermind,” Sherlock replied, looking down at the picture again. “It does look deceiving, though.”

“How so?” John asked.

“It does genuinely look like you’re my boyfriend,” Sherlock smiled sadly. John was about to argue that he wanted to be Sherlock’s boyfriend but Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting them. Sherlock opened up the text message with a frown; recognising the name Dimmock, he groaned and rolled his eyes. “We’ve been summoned by the idiots.”

“Scotland yard?” John asked quizzically. “But Greg isn’t there.”

“Maybe they need help finding their arses, it seems they can’t tell the difference between them and their elbows,” Sherlock smiled softly.

“Meow,” John laughed. “Come on then.”


	10. Chapter 10

_His body always kept,_   
_Mine inside of it._   
_Keep the nightmares out,_   
_Give me mouth to mouth._   
_I can't live without ya,_

_Daughter – Home_

* * *

 

Sherlock led the way up the staircase to major crimes as John trailed behind; his arm felt strange being free from his cast and the air brushing against his hairs felt unusually pleasant. He smiled as he pulled himself up the stairs with his hand on the bannister. “What do you think they want?”

“No idea,” Sherlock admitted, “I haven’t worked with Dimmock for a few years. I can’t imagine it’s anything new or Lestrade would have mentioned it.”

“Hmm,” John shrugged as Sherlock reached the top and opened the door, his body coming to a stop and forcing John to bump into him. “Sherlock, what are you—”

The picture from the magazine had been blown up and pinned to the wall which normally housed the information on crimes currently being investigated. The look of love between the two men was evident in the blown up version and Sherlock gulped loudly as Anderson lowered his head.

“Anderson?” Sherlock blinked.

The pair had called a truce after Sherlock’s return. The detective understood that Anderson felt guilt towards his behaviour before the fall and had accepted his apology readily, and although the pair still occasionally clashed at crime scenes there was a begrudging respect and calm between them as they coincided with one another.

“It wasn’t me,” Anderson shook his head, “I tried to stop them.”

Sherlock had attempted to block John’s view but hadn’t noticed the doctor stepping to the left to see what was causing Sherlock’s stiffened posture. The doctor clenched his fists as he looked at Sherlock’s pale face and the trembling of the detective’s body as Sherlock obviously reacted badly to being mocked.

“Ah, there’s the lovebirds!” Sally and Dimmock smiled as they left Lestrade’s office. Sherlock’s eyes swept across both officers before letting his head fall.

“What in the fuck?” John swore, stepping in front of Sherlock and pacing forward until he was between his friend and the people laughing at him.

“Oh relax, John.” Donovan rolled her eyes. “It’s only a joke.”

“But why?” John asked pleadingly. “Why go through all the trouble?”

“He creates a vibe in the office. We just wanted to get back at him,” Dimmock smirked as he shared a knowing look with Sally.

“I create a vibe in the office?” Sherlock spat, seemingly snapping out of his daze and taking two steps forward until he was side by side with John.

“Yeah. You make everyone uncomfortable,” Dimmock sneered.

“Listen, the only vibe you need to worry about is the one your wife keeps hidden in her knicker drawer,” Sherlock glared. “And sleeping with Sally? Isn’t that a bit obvious? She’s the Yard’s bike.”

Sally opened her mouth angrily and stepped to get into Sherlock’s face, only to be stopped by John’s hand on her collar. “I wouldn’t.”

“He doesn’t love you. He couldn’t. John’s straight and why would he want to be with someone like you? You’re just a freak,” Sally spat angrily, staring at Sherlock and willing him to cause a scene.

John stepped forward; crowding into Sally’s space he forced her to look at him and lifted an eyebrow watching as realisation dawned on her face. “No!”

“Yes,” John nodded with a shrug. “And I don’t need to be a master of deduction to recognise a jealous bitch when I see one. What happened? Did Sherlock turn down your advances? Is that why you’re always so vile towards him?”

Sally spluttered angrily and looked between John and Sherlock. “I wouldn’t dare! I’ve never even thought about it!”

“Christmas party, 2005,” Sherlock mumbled causing John to laugh. “You attempted to pull me into the store cupboard where you offered to perform a sex act upon me. When I turned you down, you insisted it was a joke.”

“I - It was!” Sally insisted, her cheeks blushing as she continued attempting to fight the embarrassment.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you with your hands up your skirt,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Was that a joke, too?”

Sally spluttered angrily as John burst into peels of laughter; even Anderson joined in with awkward and nervous laughter towards his co-worker.

Sherlock reached for his phone and snapped a picture of the blown up photo before attaching it to a text message to Lestrade.

**Think you need to speak to your staff about wasting resources** **– SH**

“Well, have a nice day,” John grinned as he grabbed for Sherlock’s hand and entwined their fingers. Sherlock looked down and blushed before lifting his head with confidence.

“Er, Dimmock?” A voice from behind them spoke, “DI Lestrade is on the phone for you. I don’t think he’s happy.”

Sherlock laughed as he followed John back towards the stairway; the two stopped at the top of the stairs where it was deserted and took a long, deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered sadly.

“Why?” John frowned. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I suggested the park. We shouldn’t have gone,” the detective grumbled under his breath, only to be stopped by John cupping his cheek with his now healed arm. Sherlock’s breath caught as John brought his lips to press softly against Sherlock’s own, the kiss was chaste but full of softness and adoration as John put his other hand on his friend’s hip.

“I couldn’t care any less,” John shrugged with a soft smile. “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock nodded and allowed John to hold his hand as they walked down the stairs, only pulling away as they reached the exit onto the street.

* * *

 

The two men retired to bed; knowing that they had the night to themselves due to Molly and Greg having the baby overnight they decided to take full advantage of the fact. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s neck as they tripped and giggled with one another, pulling off their clothes and shuffling towards the mattress. John growled in frustration as his head was caught in the hole of his jumper and he was forced to ask for help from Sherlock who chuckled softly and coaxed the item from his lover's body. The two men stood semi-naked in the darkness of Sherlock’s room, although it was still only evening the blackout curtains created an illusion of night which helped settle both their nerves as they began to kiss softly and devoutly, their lips meeting in a passionate embrace as John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

_Mary loved having her hair stroked like that._

John jumped apart from Sherlock and gasped at his brain’s cruelty which startled Sherlock; the detective stood with his hands clasped in front of him, scanning John’s face and body for signs of regret.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “I just… my brain decided to freak out.”

“Do you want to stop?” Sherlock asked meekly, his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes downcast to the floor.

“Absolutely not,” John smiled, his hand cupping Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s taken too long to get here. I don’t want to waste another moment.”

Sherlock relaxed into John’s embrace and allowed his eyes to flutter up to meet John’s. The older man’s indigo eyes had changed colour once more, glittering with flecks of gold as he stroked away the curls from Sherlock’s face and pressed their lips together. It was a relatively chaste kiss, their lips not fighting for dominance but rather just enjoying the sensations of brushing against one another as they cemented their feelings. Sherlock’s mind quieted and stilled as he realised that _this_ was what the songs were about. His previous inability to understand popular music was because he had never had this sensation before; his entire body relaxed and his large hands wrapped themselves around John’s cheeks as he pulled him closer, ignoring the single tear which fell down his cheek as he brushed his lips over John’s own.

John shuddered as electricity exploded down his spine; pulling away, he let his forehead rest on Sherlock’s momentarily before moving to the bed and extending his arm for Sherlock to follow. The younger man cautiously took the outstretched and allowed himself to fall to the bed inelegantly.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” Sherlock whispered to John. “I was so lonely without you.”

John bit his lower lip and stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s pale cheeks before leaning in for a kiss, and their lips met once more. Their practice was showing as they maintained a familiar speed and position to ensure their noses didn’t bump or they didn’t clack their teeth together. Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed back onto the bed as John straddled his upper thighs, carefully avoiding Sherlock’s groin as he continued to kiss and caress Sherlock’s face. The detective keened low as John pressed soft breathy kisses over every inch of his face before moving down the obscenely long neck and throat, using his nose to nudge the curls out of the way as he licked at Sherlock’s earlobes and nipped at his jawline.

Sherlock froze; his entire body felt like it was about to short circuit with desperate need and feelings he had never experienced. Pleasure rushed through every nerve and synapse as John kissed and nibbled; a whimper escaped Sherlock’s throat, startling John into stopping and looking over at his lover with concern.

“Am I moving too fast?” John asked nervously, biting his lip.

Sherlock shook his head no but he was lying, something John immediately recognised from the younger man slamming his eyes closed and forcing breaths through his nose.

“You’re so responsive,” John smiled, moving back to Sherlock’s lips. “I love how sensitive you are.”

“John,” Sherlock squeaked as his lover nibbled on his earlobe. Clearing his throat he tried again, “John.”

“Okay, pet,” John smiled. “When you want me to give you a break, touch my shoulder and I’ll stop.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding and relaxed back onto the mattress as John shuffled further down his legs; the doctor's own cock was tenting his underwear filthily and drips of precum had collected on the fabric as he lowered his lips to Sherlock’s clavicle. Beginning with soft licks and kisses, John travelled the full length of the bone until Sherlock was panting with need, his cheeks flushed and his eyelashes fluttering.

John moved to tease Sherlock’s nipples, watching enraptured as the detective locked his abdomen muscles and arched from the bed at the first touch. John pointed his tongue and licked circles around the dusky pink areolas, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes and gasped before grabbing John’s shoulder in a vice grip. His breathing was ragged and forced as he moved his free hand to pull on his hair, attempting to ground himself to the intense pleasure.

“Fuck. How are you so responsive?” John gasped in awe.

“N- Never been touched,” Sherlock blushed before blowing out a long breath. “Okay, carry on.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock passionately, teasing open his plump lips with his tongue before flicking and lapping at the warm inside which tasted so perfectly of Sherlock. The younger man kissed back and let his hands stroke up and down John’s body, trailing his fingers up and down John’s sides and over his slightly paunched stomach before flipping over his shoulders and down his spine and cupping John’s buttocks.

“Wait… wait,” Sherlock gasped.

John chuckled and pulled away from Sherlock’s lips. “I’m not touching you! You’re touching my bum.”

“Shh, don’t talk,” Sherlock insisted, his eyes clamped shut as he attempted to think of the most disgusting and revolting thought to quell his arousal. ( _Mycroft in a bathing suit. That worked.)_

John smiled lovingly down at his friend and stayed statue still until Sherlock had managed to get himself under control. Realising that the younger man probably wouldn’t be able to withstand a long and teasing love-making session, John moved from his position and pulled down his boxer shorts without hesitation, watching as Sherlock swallowed; his adams apple bobbing with an audible gulp.

“Can I take yours off too?” John asked softly, his hands tracing across Sherlock’s navel and lower abdomen in a calming gesture.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded slowly, lifting his hips to help John who had pushed his thumbs into the fabric to work them down the younger man’s legs. John sighed happily and ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s thighs before lying down beside his lover until they were face to face, their breath only inches away from one another as John tangled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair whilst staying careful not to brush their naked crotches together.

“J-John?” Sherlock whispered, his eyes completely black except a thin slice of colour.

“Shhh,” John soothed, as he turned around and opened the top drawer of the night stand to grasp the lubricant. Flicking open the lid, he slicked up his hand and stroked the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, listening to Sherlock’s breathing hitch in both confusion and anticipation.

The doctor slid his cock into the space between Sherlock’s thighs, groaning deeply at the sensation and watching Sherlock shudder in arousal as he felt John’s cock against his virgin skin. The older man wrapped one thick hand around Sherlock’s leaking prick and began a slow rhythm, watching as Sherlock immediately gripped his shoulder with a begged, “ _Wait, wait, wait._ _”_

“It’s alright, I’ve got you, Sherlock,” John whispered, his other hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair. “I love you.”

Sherlock gave a noise which sounded like a cross between a growl and a whine as John gave a long stroke from base to tip, watching as the precum dropped onto the bedding between them. Sherlock keened loudly and gripped John’s shoulder tightly. “Don’t stop... I just… need to hold on.”

John smiled warmly and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s pink flushed nose before licking his plump lips and sucking them into his mouth. “You are so beautiful.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his back arching as John thrust into the gap between his thighs; the detective could feel the push of John against his bollocks whilst his cock was stroked expertly.

“Wonderful, loyal, amazing Sherlock.” John was whispering directly into Sherlock’s lips, his breathy comments being swallowed by his lover who was feeling the fizzling pressure which indicated he was close.

“So loved, Sherlock, I adore you,” John groaned and began to cum, his thick stripes of ejaculate landing on Sherlock’s inner thigh and the bedding beside him as they rocked together. Sherlock could only give one tiny inhale before he too was over the edge; his cock twitched in John’s hand as streams of cum flooded across John’s fist and lower stomach. The noise which Sherlock made was almost inhuman in quality, a gasped cry of John’s name as he arched his back and wailed loudly before his head fell back on the pillow. John smiled and stroked through the soft curls before placing a kiss on each of Sherlock’s eyelids and his nose. “Relax, I’ll get us cleaned up.”

Sherlock gave a vague acknowledgement that John had spoken, but was overtaken by the endorphin high which was flooding his body. He nuzzled further into the pillow and realised that he was shaking although he didn’t feel cold or sick; ignoring it, he allowed himself to slip wordlessly into his mind palace to document the feelings before he slept.

“Charming,” John grumbled playfully as he returned to the bedroom and found Sherlock in the same position, only his eyes were hazy and far away, obviously the detective had escaped into his mind palace. John cleaned them both up and turned over the duvet before climbing in beside Sherlock and covering them both. Cuddling up to his lover, he whispered a declaration of love before falling asleep.

His last thought was of Abigail, hopefully asleep at Molly’s house and Sherlock snoozing beside him. He felt completely blissful.

* * *

 

_John recognised the location as the dancefloor from the Manor house they had used for the reception of the wedding. Pink and yellow disco lights cast spots over the entire room as he stood opposite his bride; Mary was wearing her vintage wedding gown, her hair was perfectly coiffed and her make up was shimmering in the various lights as she looked at her husband with soft and loving eyes._

_“Hello love,_ _” she smiled, holding out her hand for John to take._

_John stepped away from his wife and took another step back angrily; Mary reacted sadly with a deep sigh before positioning her fingers in the wellknown gesture of a gun. Smiling, she pretended to cock the gun before whispering,_ _“Bang._ _”_

_A thud from behind had John whisking around to see Sherlock on his back; his face was pale and his eyes were closed as blood began to seep through the crisp white shirt. John looked between his best friend and wife before rushing to Sherlock_ _’s side and attempting to stem the bleeding, the same way he had done the night it really happened._

_“John?_ _” Mary whispered, her voice suddenly changing to one of emptiness._

_John turned and saw her standing with her arms outstretched, a bloom of red was working its way through the old fabric of her wedding dress as she opened her eyes wide and looked at her husband pleadingly. John didn_ _’t move as he watched the stain get bigger and bigger until her dress was completely red._

_“Look at me,_ _” Mary shouted, venom in her tone._ _“I_ _’m burning!_ _”_

_John gasped as flames erupted up and down Mary_ _’s outstretched arms before spreading to her head and body. Her hair was burnt off and the clothing she was wearing fell in tatters around her feet as she maintained eye contact with her husband._

John awoke with a scream; flinging himself from the bed, he backed himself into a corner and looked over at Sherlock who was slowly pulling himself from his position on his back. “John?”

“No. No!” John shook his head. “No, I can’t!”

He ran from the room, grabbing his jeans and a t-shirt and fleeing out into the London morning, leaving Sherlock blinking tearfully with a growing sense of uneasiness in his stomach.


	11. Chapter 11

_I won't give up chasing love, son_  
_Here I go, look at me run_  
_Here I go_  
_Look at me run_

_First Aid Kit – Fleeting one._

* * *

Harry climbed from her bed at the first knock; the banging had startled her and Clara awake and it had been decided that it was her job to go and see who was at the door at 4am on a Wednesday morning. Grabbing her dressing gown she tied it around herself and picked up the heavy cricket bat they kept by the side of the bed incase of burglars, ( _she had become terrified due to John_ _’s work with the police and didn_ _’t want to be weaponless_ ) as she descended down the stairs she winced at the second, louder bang from her front door. Her heart thudded at an alarming rate as she lifted the cricket bat to her chest and reached the entrance hall. Looking through the outer glass, she couldn’t see anybody and creeped closer, putting her eye over the peephole and exhaling shakily as she recognised her brother standing, shivering on her doorstep.

Pulling open the lock and chain, she opened the door and bundled John into the house with a tut, ignoring his upturned eyebrow at her bat wielding.

“You used to go mad when I visited you at stupid o’clock in the morning,” she joked, remembering how she used to call at John’s on her way back from the pub or club. John would stumble from bed and let her in to use the toilet or eat her kebab, before calling a taxi and paying the driver directly to ensure she got home safe. Her face softened as she saw the look on John’s face.

“I- I...” he started, before collapsing and pulling her down with him, his sobs wracking his small frame as Harry rocked him and attempted to shush him to calm his breathing which was bordering on a panic attack.

“Come on. I’ll make tea,” she whispered, helping John stand and leading him through to the living room.

* * *

 

“Sorry, I just… didn’t know where else to turn,” John sniffled sadly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand until Harry handed him the box of tissues from the table.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, stroking his back and turning to face him further. “What happened?”

“Sherlock and I-” John started before silencing.

“Had sex?” Harry finished, watching as John shook his head.

“Not quite,” John blushed. “We erm… got close.”

“Look, John,” Harry smiled devilishly, “I’m not interested in your sex life. The thought of one penis horrifies me so two would be a nightmare, but you can tell me whatever it is without judgement.”

John lifted an eyebrow in disbelief which caused Harry to chuckle. “Okay, a little bit of judgment but I promise I won’t judge until you leave."

“We didn’t do much,” John admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, “and he was so responsive and lovely. He was just perfect.”

Harry forced away the urge to playfully gag, and instead listened carefully to her brother spill his guts.

“We fell asleep straight after and it was great, but then I had a nightmare and now I think I’ve ruined it all.”

“What nightmare?” Harry asked, listening to John explain Mary’s death and Sherlock’s gunshot. “I see.”

“And then I woke up, screamed and ran from the room.” John blushed. “Some heroic soldier I am.”

“You didn’t tell him what it was about?” Harry asked.

“No. I just ran,” John sniffled, feeling the emotions rise once more.

“God, this is your problem. Both of you,” Harry sighed exasperatedly. “You’d rather run away than face the emotional fallout of your decisions.”

John scowled at his sister but let her continue.

“When Sherlock fell, you ran away from Baker Street,” Harry started carefully. “I understand why but you did. You cut off Mrs Hudson, stopped seeing me and stopped going to work.”

“True,” John grumbled.

“And then he came back and you punched him before running away.” She took a sip of her drink. “Without talking about your feelings.”

“True again,” John admitted.

“Then there was the stag night debarkle, if we can call it such.” Harry smiled. “ _Something_ happened that night as you stopped talking so emotionally about him. Whenever I asked about him you just said ‘fine’ and then left it.”

“Nothing happened,” John answered slightly too fast, causing Harry to smile once more.

“So, you got married and ran away. You didn’t see him for a month and then you saw him in a drug den and what did you do? You called Mycroft to deal with it because you had your _other life_ to live rather than be with Sherlock, the person you _should_ be with.”

John frowned and put down his teacup before scrubbing at his eyes with his hands.

“Sherlock has always done what was best for you and only you. He faked his death for you, he went on the run for you, he came back to life!” Harry shook her head sadly. “He was the best man at your wedding despite being besotted with you.”

“H- He was tortured, whilst he was away,” John admitted without looking up.

“Fuck,” Harry spat before shaking her head. “He left you alone when you got married and he pledged to look after the baby.”

John realised that Harry didn’t know about Magnussen’s death so stayed silent whilst adding ‘killed a man’ to his list.

“And then when your baby was born, he arranged everything to ensure you had a home, a friend, a babysitter, you have every resource at your hands and you’re still thinking about yourself,” Harry said kindly but firmly.

“I didn’t choose this!” John exploded, before calming himself and clenching his fists. “This isn’t my fault.”

“No, baby brother,” Harry sighed, “it isn’t, but it’s the life you chose with the man you love.”

“I need to find him. I need to find Sherlock,” John insisted, moving to stand before gasping at the pain in his feet from walking the streets in no shoes.

“Come on. I’ll take you home,” Harry smiled, helping John to hobble to her car.

* * *

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock?!” John shouted as he climbed the stairs to 221B. His feet ached and his whole body was thrumming with energy as he pulled himself up the staircase, only to be met with silence. Walking through the flat, he realised that he was completely alone and Sherlock wasn’t there.

“John, dear? What’s all the racket?” Mrs Hudson asked, walking out of her flat in her pyjamas and hair rollers.

“Sherlock? Have you seen him?” John asked in a panic. “Where did he go?”

“Mycroft came about an hour ago, love,” the landlady almost whispered. “He seemed very angry. Sherlock was very pale. You don’t think he’s back on it, do you?”

“No. I have to find Mycroft. I need to find Sherlock,” John muttered as he entered the flat and grabbed his shoes, socks and a hoodie to keep him warm. He winced as his tattered feet met the fabric of his socks but refused to slow down as he grabbed for his phone and looked at the screen. No messages or missed calls showed.

“John? There’s a car outside for you,” Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, causing John to flinch and walk to the curtains. Pulling them aside he noticed the sleek black car waiting at the kerb.

“Thanks,” John shouted back, as he limped down the stairs and onto the street. He closed the door softly, hoping not to wake the neighbours as he opened the backdoor of the car and climbed inside. Anthea sat looking bored and devoid of emotion as she clicked away on her Blackberry.

“Do you know where Sherlock is?” John begged his travel companion.

“Yes,” she admitted without looking up.

“Are we going to see him?” John asked hopefully.

“No,” Anthea replied, fixing John with a stare that silenced him for the remainder of the journey.

The car rolled to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse on the South Bank; John felt the sinking sense of dread as he remembered Mycroft’s warning that he would be ‘ _done with me, John Watson_ _’._

“Through there,” Anthea nodded to the entrance, before settling back against the car and focussing back on her mobile. Probably announcing their arrival to ensure Mycroft looked scarier than ever.

John walked slowly; he remembered the first time he'd met Mycroft in an abandoned warehouse and chuckled sadly at the similarity. Walking into the unknown without Sherlock and with a limp.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft’s voice came from the shadows, “thank you for joining us.”

“Look, Mycroft,” John answered slightly strained, “I don’t need a panto show, just come out and tell me where Sherlock is.”

“No,” Mycroft added, although he did step out into the light so John could see. “I’m tired of this merry-go-round, John. I’m sick of having to pick up the pieces and put Sherlock back together after you’ve had your fun.”

“That isn’t... I wasn’t...” John started before being cut off by Mycroft bringing his umbrella to point at him.

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to support my baby brother?” Mycroft asked rhetorically. “There was the fall, of course, and the torture, and the wedding and the baby.”

“I know, I understand but…” John was interrupted again.

“And now it seems that you’ve upped your torture. Now it’s no longer mental but physical as well,” Mycroft grimaced, obviously aware of the changed situation between John and Sherlock.

“Mycroft, you’ve got it wrong,” John tried, lifting his hands in a symbol of surrender. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Hmm, tell me John. Do you remember throttling my brother in the restaurant?” Mycroft asked looking down his nose at the doctor.

“Y- Yes,” John admitted.

“Good. Now, use your deduction skills and tell me why Sherlock came back to me in a terrible state.”

“He… He was upset that I hurt him,” John whispered, unsure why he was playing along with Mycroft’s game.

“Not quite, think harder,” Mycroft replied.

“He didn’t know about Mary,” John tried again.

“Closer, but keep thinking. Think about the act of throttling him, of throwing him to the ground knowing now what you know.”

John’s stomach lurched and his heart missed a beat as realisation flooded through his veins. “His back.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft nodded. “My brother had lived on the run for two years, saving you and your friends and undergoing more trauma than you could possibly know. When he returned, he found you ready to move on with your life and when he showed himself, you caused his wounds to reopen. He had to be admitted back into hospital for restitching.”

“I didn’t know then,” John cried out emotionally. “I had no idea. All I knew was that he was alive and that he had lied to me for two years. I didn’t know anything else.”

“Yet you still moved on so quickly,” Mycroft replied sarcastically.

“It was that, or kill myself!” John seethed. “Do you not think that I thought about it daily? Every morning I awoke to a world without Sherlock and thought about ending it but I was a coward. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to live in a world which didn’t have Sherlock in it but I was too much of a coward to end it.”

John slumped to the floor and sobbed, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at Mycroft. “You don’t know how I feel about him. I love him, I’d die for him. You could kill me right now and I’d have no regrets so long as you tell me that you’ll always keep him safe.”

A rustling from behind caused John to turn and recognise the swoosh of Sherlock’s coat, moment’s before he was being engulfed in a warm embrace. John sobbed harder, grabbing Sherlock’s collar and pulling him closer, inhaling the scent of his lover deeply.

“I love you, Sherlock, please believe me. I don’t want to live without you, I can’t. I need you,” John chanted, no longer worrying about Mycroft who was standing awkwardly and watching the display of affection.

“John, my John,” Sherlock repeated over and over, his chin resting on John’s head as he stroked his doctor’s back softly, smelling the sweet scent of John’s shampoo and their previous arousal.

“I’m sorry I overreacted. I had a nightmare and it scared me. I’m sorry,” John mumbled, pulling Sherlock in for a long and chaste kiss. Whimpering when Sherlock’s hands gripped his head tightly and held him there.

“This is the last time,” Mycroft spoke, causing both men to look up. “I can’t keep babysitting you two. Either make it work or move on.”

John nodded and whispered, “We will,” before grasping Sherlock tightly again. Their eyes streaming with tears and their noses running causing both men to look wretched in the dim light of the warehouse.

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock smiled and began to chuckle which immediately set John off into his own laughter. Mycroft could only shake his head and walk towards the waiting car, leaving the two men huddled and giggling on the cold floor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Added half chapter of smut just because I love you all and I'm in a good mood :)

Sherlock frowned as the pair climbed from the sleek black car provided by Mycroft ( _although thankfully Anthea had given them privacy to allow them to make up. Something which John was glad of when Sherlock pushed him into the car and snogged him passionately)_ and walked to the black door. Noticing that the knocker had been straightened by Mycroft again, Sherlock childishly moved it to an angle before opening the door and holding it open for John who had begun to limp. Sherlock watched carefully as John hobbled through the entrance and up the stairs, grimacing with each heavy footstep. It didn’t look like his usual stress related limp, but Sherlock couldn’t be entirely sure without further data.

A slight shiver ran up John's spine as he made his way up the stairs to the flat, Sherlock following close behind him. The anticipation of finally making it home, for them to be alone was pressing low in John’s lower stomach and blooming through his limbs.

Locking the door behind them, Sherlock followed John up the stairs and into the living room which had been refreshed by Mrs Hudson, who'd lovingly lit the fire in the mantle to ensure her tenants were warm enough when they returned. Sherlock pulled off his coat and placed his long, musician’s fingers against John’s warm neck as he helped the doctor slide off his own jacket. Placing them onto the coat rack, Sherlock watched as John collapsed tiredly into his chair beside the fire, his face a mask of pain as he attempted to toe off his shoes.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Sherlock asked redundantly, it was fairly obvious that John _had_ hurt himself although the detective wasn’t sure under what circumstances.

“I er… forgot to put on shoes when I went out this morning in my panic,” John blushed, rubbing his neck.

Sherlock moved quickly between John’s feet, his fingers making quick work of the laces in John’s brogues before slipping them off as softly as possible. With careful movements, Sherlock teased down John’s shoes and listened to the doctor hiss and swear under his breath at the ripping sensation when the fabric teared at scabbed flesh.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock whispered, one hand stroking up to John’s knee in sympathy. “It’s off now.”

The detective looked over at the cut feet and felt a pang of hurt in his stomach; he understood that John had reacted terribly to his nightmare, not to the events which had transpired before but Sherlock was still nervous. He’d never been in a relationship before, especially not with somebody who claimed to be straight previously. He wasn’t entirely sure of the boundaries.

“I’m not going to freak out,” John sighed, rubbing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and lowering his eyes to focus on Sherlock’s own. “I’m sorry I was an idiot.”

“Today, or just in general?” Sherlock quipped, looking up lovingly and watching as John’s thin lips relaxed into a quirky smile.

“Git,” John laughed and pulled Sherlock up for a soft kiss; it was neither passionate not arousing, rather just a brief brush of skin on skin as they reassured one another of their feelings. Sherlock let his fingers spread across John’s cheek whilst moving the other to cup the back of John’s neck, his large hands cradling the doctor’s skull perfectly, as though it was made only for him.

John bunched his hand inelegantly in Sherlock’s crimson shirt and combed his other hand through the raven curls, frizzling them beyond taming but neither man cared as they warmed themselves by the fire.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Shush now,” Sherlock soothed, his forehead resting against John’s own. “It’s okay.”

John shuffled forward on his chair until his bum was only barely on the cushion; Sherlock moved backwards and allowed John to re-position himself onto the floor facing his lover. Kissing again, John pushed Sherlock back until the taller man was laid out on his back, and grabbing a pillow he slipped it under Sherlock’s head and straddled the detective’s hips, ignoring the creak of his knees and the aches on the soles of his feet. Sherlock groaned low and deep and opened his bright eyes to stare at John in awe, the light from the fire giving him an almost ethereal glow and catching the shine on each follicle of hair making it look golden and angelic.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock whispered, repeating the word in every language he knew to ensure that John recognised the feeling of being utterly and completely marvelled at.

John flushed and lowered his head to kiss Sherlock’s plump lips; his kisses continued across the younger man’s jawline and down his pale neck, behind his ear where it was most sensitive and across the slightly rough skin of his chin where Sherlock hadn’t been able to shave yet. John’s fingers skimmed quickly over Sherlock’s shirt, unbuttoning it quickly and effectively before leaving it open to the side, the red material pooling around Sherlock’s pale body suddenly shocking John into a memory of the detective lying on the floor outside Bart’s, crimson blood flowing from his head.

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed, seemingly able to read John’s thoughts. “It’s over now. I’m home.”

John bit his lip and nodded before insisting that Sherlock throw away the shirt to one side; Sherlock gladly followed his blogger's instruction and moved to lie down. The carpet was scratchy against his skin but the pressure from John’s arse over his crotch was more than enough to warrant a tiny bit of discomfort.

“Trousers too?” John asked, seeking permission to strip Sherlock who again, quickly gave permission with a frenzied nod.

Eventually, Sherlock lay naked by the fireside; his cock, hard and leaking against his lower stomach, had become chafed by John’s jeans resulting in the older man stripping down too which left both men completely bare in the warmth of the flat. Kissing passionately, John trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s body and marvelled at how sensitive his lover was.

Kissing along Sherlock’s ribs, John moved lower and lower, licking around his navel before dipping his tongue inside with a coy smile to Sherlock who gasped and writhed away from the unfamiliar sensation. John grinned and breathed kisses along the younger man’s hips, occasionally flicking his tongue over the salty skin of his hipbones or the trail of hair from navel to crotch. Following the line, John nuzzled his nose along the crease between hip and thigh, ignoring Sherlock’s cock as much as possible as he teased him relentlessly. Giving a slight bite and suck, John marked Sherlock’s inner thigh with a purple bruise before looking up.

“Tell me… If I’m not good. I’ve never done this,” John blushed, watching Sherlock frown in confusion before his face became blank with pleasure as John lowered his mouth over his twitching cock. Tasting the free-flowing precum, John felt like gagging but soon swallowed and figured out how to best breathe. The technique was sloppy and uncoordinated as he circled his tongue around the very tip of Sherlock’s prick, dipping his tongue occasionally into the slit to lap away at the moisture before his hands joined in.

“Wait… wait…wait,” Sherlock begged, his eyes tightly closed, “please John, wait.”

John pulled away and sat at Sherlock’s hip, his hand moving to entwine into Sherlock’s as his thumb stroked over Sherlock’s wrist. The detective was struggling to keep breathing, panting as though he had run a marathon as he desperately fought to control his orgasm.

“Let go if you need to, love,” John soothed, watching as Sherlock bit down on his lip so hard that a spot of red had formed around the bright white teeth.

“John, John, John!” Sherlock chanted as his hips thrust into the air, and he came with a wail, painting his lower stomach with white as he gasped and writhed in bliss. John watched, his own cock twitching and rapidly close to the edge as he watched Sherlock enjoy his climax. The fire caused strange shadows to flow over Sherlock’s body as the younger man shuddered and tensed his muscles as his cock finally stopped spurting ribbons of cum.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blushed when he could finally find his own voice. “That was a bit… abrupt.”

“It was sexy as hell,” John insisted as he moved to kiss Sherlock with passion.

Sherlock returned the kiss before using his core strength to flip them over until John was lying on the floor with Sherlock straddling his waist. The detective lifted John’s hand to his lips and pressed small kisses on each fingertip and over the sensitive skin of John’s wrist, before dropping his mouth to John’s lips as his hand skimmed across John’s slightly wet stomach, the mixture of sweat and Sherlock’s ejaculate forcing their arousal higher as Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John’s prick and stroked slow and teasingly. John arched his back and groaned low and filthy, his eyes fluttering closed as he swore in a whisper.

Sherlock looked at John’s cock and flicked his eyes back to John’s face; deciding to attempt it, Sherlock moved until he was at eye level with John’s purple tipped cock and extended his tongue, lapping at the precum dripping from John’s tip.

“Oh God, yes, just like that,” John begged, his eyes fluttering closed and his mouth dropping open as Sherlock licked and experimented with his tongue, tracing the folds of John’s foreskin before dropping down to lick and suck on John’s tight bollocks. John could only tangle his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, his hands either side of his lover’s head above his ears as he held the stray curls away to enable him to see everything like a pornographic show.

The detective gagged and pulled away, taking a deep breath to steady himself. John’s cock twitched which caused Sherlock to smile smugly and raise an eyebrow. “John Watson, you deviant.”

John blushed and closed his eyes as he exhaled shakily. “It’s not a kink or anything, I don’t want my partners to choke or throw up on me… I just like the sound.”

“You like feeling like your penis is too much to handle,” Sherlock whispered as he lowered his head further and further down until his gag reflex kicked in and he retched, pulling away.

“Don’t hurt yourself!” John groaned, his fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to kissing and sucking at John’s tip. His long fingers curled around the base that he had no way of caressing with his mouth. His own cock was beginning to harden again and he tugged on himself before looking up at John. John met his gaze and pulled him up for a long and passionate kiss, uncaring that Sherlock’s tongue had the lingering taste of his precum smeared across it. Sherlock reached for the bottle of baby oil on the table before unclicking the lid and pouring some into his hands; rubbing it onto his cock, he pushed his shaft against John’s and tightened his grip around both of them together. Grinding his frenulum against John’s own as they rolled their hips desperately.

John growled low in his throat and arched his spine for more friction as Sherlock thrust down. Sweat poured from both men as they rutted in front of the fire, their lips close enough to taste one another’s breaths as they panted and gasped. John’s precum slicked the slightly grainy oil and created the perfect slick for them to thrust into as they got closer and closer to climax.

The doctor could only hold onto Sherlock’s shoulders and reach up to kiss him, his mouth falling open and his eyes rolling back as his orgasm hit him hard and fast. His toes curled as his balls tightened and began to unload a sticky mess between them and into Sherlock’s hand. The detective felt the first spray of cum hit his skin and he too was finished. He cursed low and deep as his second orgasm washed over him; a smaller amount trickled down John’s shaft to be stroked into their skin.

Sherlock fell forwards and landed with his cheek against John’s shoulder whilst his body curled around John’s side. Both men panted heavy as the afterglow of their orgasm washed over them, both felt warm and content in the heat of the fire as they cuddled and caressed each other softly. John pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and listened to Sherlock’s breathing calm.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows immediately after previous chapter,

_We'll run side by side_   
_No secrets left to hide_   
_Sheltered from the pain_

_Olafur Analds - So Far_

* * *

Sherlock lay on his back beside John. One long arm was resting beneath his head as sweat poured from every pore in his body; neither he nor John complained of their funky smell or the smeared and combined seeds which painted their bellies. Sherlock sighed as he craved a cigarette; films and TV programmes always portrayed sexual climax resulting in cigarette smoking and cuddles, one of which John was happy to provide.

“Sherlock?” John whispered into the inky darkness which surrounded them. Sherlock turned his head to look at his lover and grunted an inelegant noise to prove he was awake. “When did you know you were in love with me?”

The younger man stilled and tensed; he hadn’t expected sentiment on this level after such a filthily messy session. Sensing his reluctance, John began to explain his own feelings. “I think I knew from Angelo’s that I was attracted to you. I attempted to convince myself it was just platonic interest but I think it was lust.”

Sherlock remained quiet, one finger making its way to his mouth before he could remind himself of the lingering taste of baby oil and ejaculate.

“But I think I realised I was in love with you on my stag night,” John whispered, his hand moving to grip Sherlock’s free hand tightly. “I wanted you so much. I wanted to kiss and touch you until we were both sated and exhausted but I couldn’t.”

“The pool,” Sherlock replied, his voice lower than John had ever heard it.

“The pool?” John asked with his mouth hanging open. “You knew that early?”

Sherlock turned onto his side and ran his spit slicked finger over John’s cheekbone. “I didn’t think I had any chance with you, and I couldn’t understand my own feelings and… well… you weren’t gay.”

John hitched a breath and lowered his eyes despite Sherlock being unable to see him.

“I tried to explain my feelings in the wedding speech and the music. I wanted to prove that I could still be a decent human being and put you first,” Sherlock sighed.

“Oh Sherlock,” John sniffled, his nose nuzzling into the spot behind Sherlock’s ear where he smelt so strongly.

“And then you went on your sex holid—your honeymoon,” Sherlock felt his eyes filling with tears at revealing his most secret feelings, “and I hated Mary so much for taking you away. My insides burnt with a fury I'd never experienced as I imagined her hands on you, touching you in places where only I should be allowed. You are mine, John Watson.” Sherlock finished possessively.

“I had no idea,” John admitted in a whisper.

“Why would you? You were happily and newly married, you didn’t need to be babysitting an overgrown toddler,” Sherlock attempted to joke but it fell flat in the stillness of the room.

“The drugs?” John quizzed, they hadn’t had a deep conversation like this since Sherlock spoke about his time away and John was desperate to learn everything he could.

“I tried fantasy at first. I retreated into my mind palace and found you; the imaginary you who got me through the torture and together we made love. Over and over, I - I touched myself thinking of you as I watched the imaginary version of you come over our bellies but afterwards I just felt numb. I was lonely and I missed you when I came back to reality to the empty flat which was devoid of your presence. I was alone, so alone and cold. I felt ridiculous lying on your bed with your jumper pressed to my face as I attempted to sniff the final lingering aroma from the fabric. That’s when I realised I needed something stronger, 7% stronger.” Sherlock shrugged. “I just wanted to feel _something,_ I was certain that something had changed between us before the wedding and that you just needed time. I truly wanted to believe that you would come back to Baker Street and apologise, tell me that you had made a mistake in choosing her and wanted to come home but you didn’t. You stopped calling or texting, you didn’t come on cases anymore and I accepted it. Sadly, I realised that I was no longer needed now that you had your own family. I was a stopgap between recovering from your war wound and finding your wife.”

John gasped and sat up, looking down at Sherlock with a look of absolute horror painting his features in the orange glow of the streetlight through the window. “You were never just that. You’ve always been more, you must know that?”

Sherlock gave a small half smile before replying, “I do now. At the time, I didn’t. Then when Janine revealed she worked for Magnessun I realised I could hone my skills; pretend to be a _normal_ person. I invited her out for a date and wooed her; I hadn’t expected you to come to the drug den that morning and find her asleep in the flat but deep down, I think I was happy. Seeing your face fall with shock and unhappiness made my heart flutter that maybe, just maybe I had a chance with you.”

“You wanted me to be jealous?” John asked.

“I wanted you to feel just a tiny amount of the ache that I felt. I wanted you to know how it felt to see someone you adored with another person,” Sherlock whispered sadly. “It was selfish and cruel.”

“You don’t know how hard it was for me after the wedding. Everything you said in the speech, my newly realised feelings from the stag do. It was so hard,” John answered, cupping Sherlock’s cheeks and pressing a soft kiss to his nose. “I couldn’t—We didn’t… me and Mary.”

“Oh” was Sherlock’s only reply as he waited for John to continue.

“It was almost as though after the wedding she was content. She had done her part and now she could just enjoy it; obviously we didn’t know anything about the revelations then but even on the honeymoon when I attempted to...” John trailed off, licking his lip and exhaling shakily. “When I tried to seduce her she pushed me away and made excuses. She felt sick, she’d had too much sun, she was tired.”

“Could have been the truth, early pregnancy symptoms include nausea—” Sherlock started only to be shushed by John kissing him softly.

“I know, but it didn’t seem genuine. She wasn’t tired or sick when she wanted to scuba dive or jet ski, just when I wanted to have sex,” John grumbled. “And I don’t even think I wanted to have sex with her, I just wanted to feel the intimacy. I thought if I could get the thoughts of you out of my system then I'd be happier and we could go on as normal. We had sex once on the honeymoon and even then, it seemed like she was simply doing her duty. Most of the time I spent the evening wanking into the shower drain.”

Sherlock smiled softly and kissed the corner of John’s lip.

“Which seemed to upset her more for some reason,” John frowned. “She would make comments such as ‘ _my god, it_ _’s like being married to a teenage boy_ _’_ or _‘that is so disgusting John_ _’_ so I couldn’t really win either way.

"By the time we got home and I saw you and Janine, I guess it was jealousy at its worst but it was also a bit of a kick in the teeth that Sherlock ‘ _not my area_ _’_ Holmes was getting laid more than a newly married man.”

“We didn’t,” Sherlock insisted forcefully. “She wanted to… but we didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t…” John gestured crudely the loss of an erection which made Sherlock blush with a shake of his head.

“I just didn’t want to sleep with her. We slept in the same bed, had a few kisses and cuddles but that was it.”

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” John whispered and stroked his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I promise I’ll always try to be better.”

“I do love you, John,” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s palm and sighed deeply. “I had no concept of what love was. The chemical make up yes, I understand that but the emotions and feelings? I have no idea and I don’t know if this is even love. It feels like something bigger than that word; like, any idiot in the world can be in love but what we have? That’s special. We’re the outliers in the graph, we’re the anomaly because I don’t believe anybody else can feel _so much_ for one another. My body and mind are swimming with you, John.”

“I have absolutely no reply to that,” John admitted speechless. “I… I can’t even begin to say anything that eloquent so I’ll just say what comes to mind.”

Sherlock nodded and waited expectantly for John’s words which followed after a brief pause.

“I went gay for you,” John grinned, his voice hitching with laughter before the rumbles of giggles escaped his lips and flowed across Sherlock’s mouth who joined in with his own deep chuckles. The pair held one another closely until tears of either happiness, guilt or anger at the lost years trickled down their cheeks to collect onto the bedding beneath.

“Marry me, John,” Sherlock suddenly spoke, sitting up and grabbing John’s hand. “Be my husband.”

“What? Are you joking?” John asked shocked.

“No. Marry me,” Sherlock insisted with a nod. “I want to show the world how much I love you.”

“You don’t need to prove your love to anybody else,” John soothed. “If it's something you’re serious about then we’ll think about it but we don’t need a piece of paper to declare our love… look at how my last one turned out.”

Sherlock nodded sadly and bit his lip. “I will find a way to show you John. I adore you.”

“I love you too, you daft git,” John smiled and kissed his lover. “Now we need to sleep as you’re taking me and Abbie out for a walk in the park tomorrow.”

“I am?” Sherlock asked.

“Um-ha,” John nodded and pulled Sherlock back to the bed and settled his head across his heart. Placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s skin he allowed himself to slowly fall asleep, content in the knowledge that he was loved.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus smut too. Why not eh!
> 
> No hint of plot just pure and unashamed shower smut.

John put Abbie down for her afternoon nap and looked over at Sherlock lying despondant on the sofa; despite solving four cases that morning from the blog, the detective was bored, ( _John knew this because Sherlock insisted on telling him every few minutes with an ear ringing shout of_ _‘booooored_ _’_ ) and was quickly becoming a threat to Mrs Hudson’s mental health.

“Shall we have a shower?” John asked as he finished washing the remaining bottles and pots from lunch.

“Why? I don’t smell,” Sherlock insisted, lifting his inside out pyjama top and taking a deep sniff of his own underarms.

John laughed and rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Sherlock frowned before seemingly understanding John’s hint. ‘Oh, coitus! You want to touch me.”

The doctor chuckled and nodded his head playfully before reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “You were so good to me when I was mortally disabled.”

“By your dead arm you mean?” Sherlock tutted dramatically, “Honestly, such a drama queen.”

“Hmm,” John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock’s neck and throat, scenting the spot directly behind the younger man’s ear. “So I thought maybe I'd look after you.”

“Wh- What would that entail?” Sherlock asked cautiously, his heart suddenly starting a blistering pace as his cock stiffened in his thin trousers.

“Whatever you like,” John whispered seductively, “Personally, I was thinking I might wash your hair and give you a nice massage under the water and then maybe use my hand on you.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock mewled, his knees threatening to buckle. “I'd like that.”

“In you pop then.” John patted him on the surprisingly plush arse before walking to grab the baby moniter to set up on the bathroom sink incase Abigail woke. Sherlock watched John for a moment before spurring himself into action and grabbing two large towels from the airing cupboard and entering the bathroom where he turned on the water and began to strip.

The younger man was momentarily nervous at the thought of John being able to see his scars so freely; despite their conversation and weeks of intimate touching, the doctor had never seen them up close other than the one time when he had interrupted Sherlock’s shower. The thought had Sherlock on edge and he wondered how best to hide his flaws as John entered and wrapped his protective arms around Sherlock, one around his neck and the other around his waist. His clothed body pressed up against Sherlock’s naked one as the bathroom steadily became steamy from the hot water.

“You never have to hide yourself,” John whispered into Sherlock’s hair, watching the curls shudder with each exhale. “I love you regardless.”

“But my scars… they're ugly,” Sherlock blushed, embarrassed at his own neediness.

“Do you find my scar ugly?” John asked, watching as Sherlock’s eyes flew open and his head begun to shake wildly.

“No. No, God no!” Sherlock cried, grabbing John’s cheeks and placing a kiss on his thin, pink lips.

“Exactly,” John whispered, “My scar brought me to you and your scars brought you back to me. We fit, like the most broken jigsaw in the world.”

Sherlock’s eyes misted with tears which he immediately blamed on the humidity of the bathroom; letting one hand rest over John’s heart he pressed a kiss to John’s mouth and opened his lips to allow their tongues to meet and sweep against one another. Again and again they passionately snogged until they were both panting and wild eyed.

“The water will get cold,” John whispered with an evil grin as he pinched Sherlock’s bum and caused the detective to squeak in an unmanly way at the gesture. John stripped his clothes quicker than he thought possible before standing under the spray and offering his hand to Sherlock who climbed in afterwards, wrapping his arms around John’s body and letting his fingers twist into John’s sandy blond strands of hair which were rapidly becoming wet under the fall of the shower.

“Under the water,” John smiled as they swapped sides with Sherlock suddenly under the warm cascade, startling when the water hit his hair and soaked the curls onto his face to cover his eyes. Grabbing for Sherlock’s shampoo, John poured a dollop into his palm before slicking it over Sherlock’s hair and lathering it well, smiling at his own silliness as he styled it into a Mohawk much to Sherlock’s confusion. John rinsed the suds from his lover’s hair and gave the conditioner a shake before continuing the same ritual of lather, style and rinse.

Sherlock was arching his back, pushing his now fully hardened cock into John’s own erection and his belly as John scraped his fingers through black curls and the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s scalp. The detective could only whine low and desperate as John moved down to stroke over his earlobes and jawline, moving his lips to kiss down the pale throat and neck. He allowed himself a moment of teasing as he licked, sucked and bit at the joint of throat and clavicle; knowing that Sherlock could cover the mark, he created a large purple bruise on the pale skin before laving it with his tongue and watching as Sherlock cried out and clenched his hands together into fists.

“Okay?” John quizzed as he watched Sherlock’s face change from its usual pale alabaster to a flushed pink version.

Sherlock wordlessly nodded and opened his eyes; the pair kissed again, slow and deep and full of meaning as Sherlock desperately ached for relief from his almost painful erection which hung low and blood heavy between his thighs. John however was only just beginning.

Using his thumb and forefinger, the doctor traced around Sherlock’s nipples and areolas, smiling when Sherlock hissed and shuddered with sensitivity. His cock twitched and leaked a large amount of precum onto the doctors leg which had slotted itself between Sherlock’s thighs in order for Sherlock to rut against. John reached for the bar of soap and lathered it between his hands as he stroked and petted Sherlock’s body, starting with his arms and upper torso ensuring to stop and tease at Sherlock’s pointed nipples and the purple mark on his neck. He let his fingers trail lower, across the silver scar of the gunshot wound which almost ended Sherlock and down the flow of dark hair from navel to crotch. Dipping his finger into Sherlock’s navel, he watched as the detective shivered and cracked open his eyes to watch John intently before closing them again. John could only smile at watching his normally composed genius come apart at the seams.

Lifting Sherlock’s arms John was faced with Sherlock’s hairy underarms; a part of the body which had never really drawn him during sexual activity but nonetheless, he had promised Sherlock a wash and massage. Lathering up his soap once more, he ran his hands around and around Sherlock’s underarms, watching as the detective cringed and bucked forward,

“Ticklish?” John teased, kissing and licking at Sherlock’s pointy chin.

“Sensitive,” Sherlock replied with a blush, hoping that John had finished his exploration to that particular part of his body with no such luck.

John trailed one finger up and down the soft skin, watching the hairs move with each pass and becoming strangely entranced by the way Sherlock would fold forward almost as though…. _Oh._

Sherlock’s cock was almost purple and leaking continuously onto John’s skin as the doctor mulled over his findings; Sherlock’s breathing had increased and his cheeks had turned a soft red colour rather than the pale pink they had previously worn. John used his thick fingers to grip the silky skin around Sherlock’s ribs before burying his face into the soapy and wet thatch of hair, inhaling the scent of his lover so perfectly that it was almost overwhelming.

The hair didn’t faze him as much as he had expected and he imagined it was due to one of his ex’s. A headstrong and confident woman who had insisted that she didn’t like to shave, John didn’t mind, he liked the aroma of her wetness smeared over the dark bush of hair ( _even if he occasionally had to stop to pull out a stray strand from his tongue or teeth)._

Licking the join between torso and arm; John watched as Sherlock tensed and keened before taking a step back and panting so hard that anybody entering the room now would believe they had just finished a strenuous activity or workout. John allowed Sherlock time to cool as the younger man bent forward and allowed his head to rest on the cool tiles of the shower cubicle.

“Alright?” John asked kindly, his fingers tracing soft circles on Sherlock’s hip.

The detective could only nod slowly and take a shuddering inhale as he managed to trample down the urge to rut himself against John’s thigh until he climaxed.

“Do you want to stop?” John found himself asking although he desperately wanted Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock nodded once more and folded his arms around John’s neck, simply holding his lover tightly and steadying himself in a parody of a slow dance. John smiled and stroked Sherlock’s back slightly until the younger man was controlled.

“I’ll do your legs,” John grinned and reached for the soap. Sitting on the edge of the tub, ( _he couldn_ _’t squat or kneel, his knees wouldn_ _’t allow it_ ), he ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s beautifully strong calves and around his knees, taking time to scrub the delicate skin on the inside of his kneecap before working his way up Sherlock’s inner thigh and around to his crotch, although he refused to directly touch Sherlock’s cock or balls much to the detective’s dismay. He was slightly worried that he might gnaw his way through his bottom lip if John didn’t relent soon.

“Bend,” John whispered, his eyes looking up at Sherlock full of love and devotion as Sherlock stilled and took a nervous inhale.

John helped position Sherlock until the younger man had his hands on the taps with his back slightly bent to allow John the ability to see the untouched pink hole hidden between Sherlock’s perfectly pert buttocks. Sherlock could feel his cheeks heating up in shame and desire as John picked up his own sensitive soap; the non chemical type was better for the doctor’s dry skin and would be better for what he had planned than Sherlock’s expensively decadent soap. Using his fingers delicately, the blond skimmed his fingers in small circles over Sherlock’s buttocks and crease, occasionally touching his hole fleetingly before moving away as though it was accidental. The younger man was gasping for breath and gripping the silver taps tightly until his fingers went white with strain as John caressed and teased his most intimate area. When John was happy that Sherlock had relaxed enough, he ran his thumb teasingly around the opening, feeling the muscles tense and flutter at the constant pressure as John shushed Sherlock softly, his other hand running up and down Sherlock’s scarred back in a comforting gesture which immediately had the desired effect and made the younger man go pliant under John’s hands.

“Can I go inside?” John asked softly, although Sherlock had fingered him to a mind-blowing orgasm, the detective had never experienced the intense feelings and John wanted to ensure that Sherlock understood his intentions and allowed him the choice to back out.

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice deep and rugged as he bit his lower lip and cast his eyes down to focus on the white plastic of the bathtub floor. His breathing hitched when John made his first move and softly began to lick and lap at the furled entrance of Sherlock’s arse. The detective cried out, his head turning to look over his shoulder wide eyed and shocked at John’s deviantness “Is that hygienic?”

“You’re in the shower, love” John laughed before dipping his tongue shallowly into the hole. His hands ran up and down Sherlock’s upper thighs as he teased his lover until Sherlock could hardly keep up straight on wobbly legs. John moved away and circling his thumb over the nerve endings which seemed to have all of Sherlock’s hair standing on end.

John smiled, his hand which had continued stroking Sherlock’s back twisting to his front to wrap around the twitching and desperate cock which was leaking between Sherlock’s thighs. John teased another stream of precum down the drain as he finally pushed his thumb inside Sherlock’s body, feeling the younger man tense and shudder at being penetrated for the first time. John stilled, allowing Sherlock to catch his breath and catalogue the sensations before he went any further. His other hand continued stroking around the spongy head of Sherlock’s prick, his fingers coaxing more of the sticky liquid over the shaft.

John wiggled his thumb and changed the angle of his entry; pushing forward slowly he cricked his digit and found the bundle of nerves that he was looking for. Sherlock stiffened, crying out and almost losing his balance as he spun his head around to glare at John with wide and glassy eyes. “Oh!”

The doctor chuckled and pressed down again, watching as Sherlock’s legs almost buckled from pleasure and another squirt of precum splashed from his tip. John stroked Sherlock from base to tip, his fingers slipping over the wet slit to pull the foreskin back and forth, massaging the head ably as Sherlock’s breathing increased in pace and volume, soft little _oh_ noises escaping his lips as he desperately fought the urge to climax.

Sherlock’s movements were jerky and quick as he desperately tried to force John to increase the rhythm on his cock; John gave mercy and flicked his wrist around the tip. Removing his thumb from Sherlock’s hole he stood and wrapped himself around Sherlock’s body, lifting him into a straightened posture and pressing a kiss on his lips as his hand which had previously been inside his lover stroked up and down the detective’s armpit, watching as Sherlock twitched a final time before coming with a choked off wail as John stroked him through his climax and kissed him deeply, tasting the desperation and bliss on Sherlock’s tongue as the detective spurted ribbon after ribbon of red hot cum over John’s thigh to be washed away by the rapidly cooling shower water. Sherlock grasped out for John who used his strength to keep Sherlock upright and standing as the afterglow of his orgasm washed over him along with the shower.

“I- That was… Wow,” Sherlock mumbled, burying his head into John’s neck as he spoke.

“Hmm,” John agreed, kissing Sherlock’s cheek and pulling away to look at his lover. Sherlock was trembling, his eyes were bright and clear and his cheeks, nose and ears were flushed pink. He looked delicious.

“Come on, let’s go get Abbie up,” John smiled as he stroked Sherlock’s cheek softly.

“You didn’t… I can…” Sherlock blushed as John shook his head.

“That wasn’t for me. I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you and want to return the care and love you’ve given me.”

“Soppy git,” Sherlock mumbled as he watched John turn and begin to climb from the bath, wrapping a towel around his waist and holding the second out for Sherlock who shut off the water and wrapped the fabric around himself.

“Arse,” John laughed heartily and opened the door, stopping in the hallway as he noticed Mycroft sitting in Sherlock’s chair with a look of boredom over his features.

“Enjoy your shower?” Mycroft asked.

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled as he angrily stomped to his bedroom.

“Were you just sitting here… listening?” John asked with a grimace. “Because I shouldn’t have to tell you how fucking weird that is.”

Mycroft sneered and looked over at John. “It was hardly my fault that you had my brother making those… noises.”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get creepier,” John grumbled, climbing the stairs to his bedroom and changing quickly before lifting Abbie from her crib and carrying her back downstairs to where Sherlock sat fully dressed and alone in the living room.

“Oh, he’s gone? Shame,” John muttered as he entered the room and sat in his chair opposite Sherlock. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Case,” Sherlock waved dismissively, “I’m not taking it.”

“Oh? Why not?” John continued, rocking Abbie softly.

“Dull,” Sherlock grumbled. “Tea?”


	15. Chapter 15

_And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,_   
_Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,_   
_'Cause we're the special two_

_Missy Higgins - The Special Two_

 

* * *

 

The weather was surprisingly mild for December; John wrapped Abigail up in layers of clothing until Sherlock carefully suggested that the baby was _probably_ protected enough. John agreed and bundled her into the buggy and helped Sherlock carry the heavy thing down the stairs. Reaching Baker Street, Sherlock allowed John the opportunity to push ( _in the two weeks since his cast had been off, he had enjoyed every moment of care for his daughter)_ and followed beside his lover carefully, ensuring that they didn’t touch incase of more paparazzi. John had insisted he didn’t care, let the media think they were a family as it was the truth; Sherlock’s stomach had flipped at the thought and his cheeks warmed up as he made pleasant conversation with John who giggled back.l

“We need to buy a tree,” John insisted. “This is our first Christmas as a family.”

Sherlock felt his stomach flutter again and frowned angrily at his stupid transport for his reactions. John noticed and let his hand rest over Sherlock’s for a split second before pulling away and continuing to speak. “And stockings! Oh, and we’ll need tinsel to hang out the carrot for Rudolph!”

“She’s ten weeks old, John,” Sherlock chuckled, “I bet she can barely tell the difference between us and a broom. She’s not going to understand the tradition.”

“I don’t care,” John whispered, his eyes glazing wistfully for a moment before shaking it away. “My mum used to love putting the carrots out, she got more excited than we did.”

Sherlock gave in and simply began a list in his mind, knowing that John would never remember everything. They were discussing the choice of traditional turkey for Christmas dinner when they were interrupted by a soft gasp and a female voice saying John’s name.

“Yes?” John asked, turning to face Miranda, one of Mary’s _friends._

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” the woman whispered, moving to stroke the baby’s cheek only to be stopped by Sherlock who stepped between her and the buggy. His silver blue eyes sparkled angrily as he stared down at the woman. “Miranda, was it? I recognise you from the wedding, you slept with the waiter with halitosis and two other mistresses.”

Miranda looked between Sherlock and John, hoping for help from the doctor who scowled in her direction. “You missed Mary’s funeral.”

“Oh, yes I know,” Miranda added nervously, her tongue flicking out to lick at her bottom lip, “something came up.”

“Ah,” Sherlock joined in, venom in his tone. “More important than seeing off your friend? And checking her widowed husband and motherless child?”

John flinched at that description but kept his face stoic as Sherlock watched the woman crumble; looking to one side she refused to meet John’s gaze. Sherlock was relentless however and continued, “You have absolutely no right to come over to John now and decide you want to paper over the fact that you couldn’t even be bothered to attend. You cannot touch this baby. I suggest you move on before we inform the police about the cannabis plants in your attic.”

Miranda blinked back tears and quickly began to walk away from the pram without looking back. John exhaled the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding and looked at Sherlock who was biting his lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” John asked, confused.

“You’re not a damsel in distress, you don’t need me protecting your honour but people like that annoy me so much, John. How dare she!”

“Shhh,” John smiled, taking Sherlock’s hand and kissing his knuckles, uncaring that they were in a public park. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded a single time before turning to John’s side once more and continuing their walk. They still conversed, but it was strained as Sherlock was barely aware of John’s words. His mind was already whirring into the beginnings of a plan.

* * *

 

The smell of cinnamon and ginger wafted around the entry hall of Baker Street as the two men pushed the buggy through the door before carrying it up the stairs; Mrs Hudson was obviously doing her Christmas baking which left the house smelling festive and wonderfully decadent. John’s leg ached from the strain of the walk and the stress of seeing Miranda, but he managed to hobble to the kitchen to start tea whilst Sherlock unbuckled the baby and held her to his chest. Looking down at the baby, Sherlock appeared to be whispering and talking to her under his breath, too low for John to hear from across the room. Making two cups, John wandered back to the living room and flopped into his chair; he opened his arms and took Abigail from Sherlock who had begun to pace around the room angrily.

“Sherlock, calm down,” John soothed, smoothing the blonde hairs from Abbie’s face into a semblance of order.

“I need to go out,” Sherlock muttered, ignoring the cup of tea which John had made for him and swooping out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

Three hours passed, then four, then five until John finally began to panic. Sherlock was known for being a nightmare and avoiding normal working hours but John didn’t know what Sherlock was doing. He hadn’t heard of any cases which Sherlock was working on so he worried easily; picking up his phone he called Lestrade and Molly who said they hadn’t heard from him for a few days which left only one other person. John took a deep breath before calling Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson? To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft asked. Even over the phone his voice sounded condescending.

“Have you seen Sherlock today?” John asked, going straight to the point and refusing to make polite small talk with the politician.

“I saw him earlier. Approximately three hours ago,” Mycroft replied. “He hasn’t returned?”

“No,” John gulped.

“Bear with me,” Mycroft sighed before going quiet. The only sounds over the line being the occasional click of the keyboard before Mycroft returned. “He’s in Wembley.”

“Why?” John asked, a little bit nervous.

“It would seem he’s surrounded by his _network,_ ” Mycroft spat the last word as though it tasted bad.

“Ah. Right, okay,” John exhaled shakily. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Take care, John,” Mycroft added before disconnecting the call.

John sat with his hand clasped around his phone as Abigail shuffled in his other arm; realising that she would need a bath and change, John quickly began to collect the various instruments he would need before running a bath full of bubbles.

* * *

 

John worked his way through all of the nursery rhymes he knew whilst sponging down Abbie; he was halfway through ‘I’m a little teapot’ when he realised that Sherlock was standing in the doorway with a huge smile, startling John into jostling Abbie and making her cry out in alarm.

“Christ. You’re like a bloody cat!” John grumbled under his breath as he shook his head. “I should put a collar and bell on you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the familiar jibe before moving across the bathroom to sit on the toilet lid, gracefully crossing his legs as he watched Abigail stop sniffling and begin splashing around with her palms on the water, soaking John.

“That’s very cute,” Sherlock muttered and flushed pink slightly.

“It’s not that cute. She peed in the water,” John replied as he wiped away the lingering drops with his shoulder. “Have a nice day?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gestured with his hand. “I had to catch up with the network, after everything with your arm and Mary, I haven’t spoken to them for a while.”

John felt the familiar guilt in the pit of his stomach as he turned his attention back to Abigail. “Everyone alright then?”

“Yes, mostly. Few low level crimes happening in the city but nothing to be concerned about,” Sherlock sighed. “Criminals these days, John, they’re just dull.”

“I’m glad of it,” John replied without thinking, backtracking immediately. “I mean… it’s nice to just work on the little cases and not deal with huge terrorist atrocities all the time. I’m not Jack Bauer.”

“Who?” Sherlock frowned. “Is he somebody I should know? Does he work for Mycroft? Wait, no I’d have heard of a name like that. Very unusual.”

John chuckled once more at Sherlock’s lack of pop culture knowledge before turning his head. “It’s from a TV show.”

“Dull,” Sherlock grumbled. “Do you not miss it then? The adventure and danger?”

John stilled for a moment and exhaled slowly before answering, “I do and I don’t. I miss the thrill of the chase and helping people but I can’t let Abbie be an orphan by putting myself at risk. It’s not like I have family she can live with, Harry would be a disaster at raising her and there’s nobody else I could trust except you.”

“John I…” Sherlock trailed off before slamming his mouth shut and placing his fingers over his lips. “We need to talk.”

“Oh,” John winced, his heartbeat pumping recklessly hard in his chest as his mind spun with possibilities of Sherlock finishing whatever _this_ was that they were doing. “Okay.”

John watched as Sherlock exited the bathroom to make tea, whilst John finished up cleaning Abigail and bundled her into the fleecy towels which smelt so perfectly of Lavender and Camomile. Carrying her to the living room he hummed softly in an attempt to stop his rising anxiety as he put on her nappy and sleeping suit before holding her to his chest and rocking. Sherlock returned with two cups of tea and pulled his chair until it was directly opposite John, his fingers steepled under his chin as he reached for a manila folder and placed it on the coffee table.

“This may be difficult to hear,” Sherlock started, once more throwing John’s heartbeat into an irregular rhythm.

“Okay,” John nodded, his voice only slightly trembling with apprehension and terror.

“So, these last few weeks have been good… great even,” Sherlock started, his eyes scanning John and momentarily frowning before pulling his face back to one of neutral interest.

“I agree,” John whispered, his brain starting its own dialogue of _Don_ _’t cry. Don_ _’t beg for a second chance, accept his feelings._

“And I’ve enjoyed spending time with you and the baby. A lot,” Sherlock continued.

“We can move out, I’ll find somewhere else, it’s okay,” John sighed. “I appreciate you letting us stay whilst I got myself sorted.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. “You want to leave?”

“I—Isn’t that what you wanted? For us to split up?” John blinked, _once, twice._

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sherlock gasped, edging forward in his chair and focussing his sea-green eyes on John.

“That’s where the conversation was headed!” John insisted angrily, startling Abbie who grumbled and wiggled in her Father's arms.

“It was not! That’s not at all what I was going to say!” Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth. “Just… look in the envelope.”

John passed Abigail to Sherlock and took the folder from the table; opening it, his mouth fell open and his eyes blinked up at his lover as he read the forms inside.

“Obviously I’ve discussed it with Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, his long fingers tangling themselves into Abigail’s soft blonde curls. “But I wanted to speak to you first before I went any further.”

“You… These are…” John closed his eyes and breathed out. “Why?”

“I want to adopt her. I had never imagined having children of my own and I already love yours. I have more money than I know what to do with which allows her a certain lifestyle which was afforded to me. The best schools, the best things in life. Summers in France and winters skiing.” Sherlock smiled softly, allowing himself to reminisce momentarily. “But only if you agree.”

“I don’t understand,” John whispered, watching Sherlock roll his eyes at the use of his most used catchphrase.

“If something bad ever happened to us… on a case or just in general. She would be well supported. As a member of the Holmes family by law, if not by name, she would be given my entire share of the family fortune and Mycroft as a guardian and overseer. She would never need anything ever again,” Sherlock stated, his face showing no emotion despite the topic.

“I don’t… Jesus, Sherlock,” John whispered reverently before breaking into a smile and rushing to his lover’s side to throw his arms around his shoulders and kiss the corner of his mouth. “We really, really need to have a conversation about the use of the phrase _‘we need to talk_ _’._ ”

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled before his eyes brightened. “You’re not upset?”

“I thought you wanted to break up!” John laughed. “That’s what _‘we need to talk_ _’_ usually means.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “How else was I supposed to imply we needed to have a conversation?”

John chuckled and buried his head in Sherlock’s neck purely to inhale his lover’s scent. It was spicy from a day of walking around London and meeting in abandoned warehouses but beneath it was the alluring scent of home.

“I need to think about this before we rush into anything,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “but I love you.”

Sherlock flushed and nodded his head, “I love you, too.”

John refreshed their tea and returned to the sofa, folding his legs under his bum as he gripped the mug tightly. “So, the adoption.”

“Yes?” Sherlock replied, looking up and meeting John’s gaze.

“Would she call you dad?” John asked carefully. “I’m not sure I like the idea.”

“No. I wouldn’t ask that of her or you. She’s not my child and I don’t want to attempt to replace Mary as her parent so I'd be happy with Sherlock, Lock, or something similar.” Sherlock nodded in all seriousness, his fingers moving to grasp his tea cup.

“Right,” John nodded. “Right.”

“This is just a legal thing, John,” Sherlock soothed. “I’m not attempting to wiggle my way into the family unit. I’m happy as we are, but if I adopt her, she’ll have access to better financial stability.”

“I understand, it’s just… a lot,” John sighed. “I appreciate you doing this though.”

* * *

 

Days passed with relative ease and no mention of the adoption or marriage. John focussed his attention on Abigail, occasionally popping over to Harry’s or Molly’s with the baby before walking past the all too familiar graveyard where John had spent some of the hardest moments of his life in front of Sherlock’s black headstone. Mary’s grave was situated as far away from Sherlock’s faux plot as Mycroft could arrange, to ensure that John could visit without the haunting memories of his depression and the life without Sherlock he had endured for two long years.

Carrying a small bouquet of flowers to the plot, John stopped the buggy and squatted to clear away the browned, dead blooms which had been left at the funeral. Replacing them with the fresh ones, John sat back and took a deep, sad breath.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” John whispered to the headstone. A white marble pillar which simply said Mary’s name and date of death; John had refused to allow any further writing to be engraved onto the stone as it would be a lie. Her date of birth was a lie, as was the fact she was a _‘loving wife_ _’._

Before Sherlock had died, John had never spoken to a headstone. He never visited his mother or father’s graves and he had always avoided his comrade's gravesides like the plague due to the PTSD induced nightmares they brought on. Sherlock’s however made him feel closer to his detective, he could talk without embarrassment or fear and would often stop off before and after work just for a chat. Mary’s felt different; it was cold and lonely, devoid of emotion or feeling as he looked between the headstone and his baby snoozing soundly in her buggy.

“She will know you,” John vowed in a hushed tone.

John returned to Baker Street feeling exhausted and old; his knee’s hurt from squatting at the side of Mary’s grave and he felt like he could sleep for a week. He entered the hallway and stopped at the familiar smell of acrid smoke, the memory of the house fire and the rush to deliver Abigail sent John spinning into a panic as he banged on the door to 221C frantically, calling for Sherlock.

The detective opened the door with a frown, his eyebrows meeting in the middle as he looked at the panicked face of his lover and best friend. There was a momentary calm before John gasped and threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, kissing his face softly and whispering words which Sherlock couldn’t catch. The detective pulled away and patted John awkwardly on the back as the doctor calmed his breathing.

“I could smell smoke and… I just… panicked a bit,” John admitted with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

“No need,” Sherlock smiled and peered around the doorway to check on Abigail who still slept soundly.

“What are you up to?” John asked, attempting to look down the stairs to see where the smell of ashes was coming from.

“All will be revealed,” Sherlock said cryptically before smiling. “Tea?”

“Oh yes, please,” John groaned. “Kill for some.”

“Me too, two sugars please,” Sherlock grinned before pulling closed the door. “And some of those delicious biscuits.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I finished my newest Sherlock cross stitch. Need to start on Sherlock's now but it's going to take SOOOOOOO long!
> 
> _[John](https://40.media.tumblr.com/3330592430e0379f615f5b1c23a1255a/tumblr_ns80jgA5wl1sb52aoo1_540.jpg) _

_Peck a kiss upon my shoulder_  
_Leave a mark, and make me better._

_Scott Matthew – Little Bird._

* * *

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, his tongue hanging out slightly as he concentrated on the task in front of him. He glued the paper and carefully snipped at the edges until it looked perfectly centred, before adding an annotation to the side bar in his calligraphic handwriting. Running one hand through his curls he smiled as he looked over at his project.

People often assumed that he had no feelings because of his inexperience with emotions, however this was not the case. Sherlock felt the same as most people only with more rationality and logic, which is why he had decided to put together a memory box for Abigail. He had spoken with Mycroft who'd informed him that the fire marshal in charge of John’s previous home had stored everything they had managed to save before the house had been demolished. Sherlock had personally picked through the charred remains which had been stored in a lock up near the Thames, his hands and clothes had reeked of smoke and he had been sure that John was suspicious the day he returned to hammer on the door of 221C but thankfully, John was as unobservant as ever.

Sherlock had found the photo album which contained the Watson wedding photos; it was slightly water damaged but most of the photographs were still visible, and after pulling some strings with one of Mycroft’s contacts he had managed to have them completely restored. Now, sitting on the kitchen table he was sorting them into a large and expensive photo album along with descriptions of people in the pictures. Sherlock had also found Mary’s jewellery box, although there was nothing expensive except her wedding ring, and Sherlock placed it inside the box for Abigail to discover for herself.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice startled him into looking up, his face doing the perfect ‘deer in headlights’ look. “What are you doing?”

“I can explain,” Sherlock whispered, before letting his hands fall into his lap. “It’s not finished yet…”

John walked to the table and gasped at the vision of Mary’s face looking back at him. He had seen Facebook photos of the wedding of course, but he hadn’t expected to see his official wedding photographs ever again. His heartbeat quickened as he looked between the pictures and Sherlock’s face. “Where did you…”

“I didn’t know but the fire service salvaged whatever they could on Mycroft’s instruction. He told me yesterday when I visited and I thought I'd work on a memory box for Abigail.” Sherlock blushed slightly at the sentiment. “I can forget it… you hate it… it doesn’t matter.”

John blinked once, twice, and then wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s cheeks and pressed their lips together. It wasn’t a comfortable position and forced their noses to squash against one another whilst their breathing whistled in the small space between them; John opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to tease over Sherlock’s own, tasting tea and mint on his lover's tongue as he held his face tightly before pulling away and gasping for breath.

“Come to bed with me,” John whispered, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s cheek. “Please.”

“The baby?” Sherlock asked, his eyes attempting to deduce John’s movements, but his arousal standing between logical thought and reality.

“Mrs Hudson has taken her next door to Mrs Turner’s,” John smiled. “We’re home alone and I want to make love to you.”

Sherlock’s stomach fluttered wildly at the statement as John held out his hand, offering Sherlock the perfect opportunity to pull away if it wasn’t what he wanted. The detective stilled for a moment, taking a deep inhale and exhale before putting his hand into John’s and entwining their fingers as John helped him from his seat and pushed their bodies together. Sherlock let his nose scent across the warm skin of John’s neck and throat as he was walked backwards towards the bedroom which was rapidly becoming _theirs_ as they spent most nights curled up together.

John pushed Sherlock back onto the bed and crawled, feline like over the detective’s prone body until they were once more nose to nose. Sherlock arched his neck, seeking comfort from his lover who gave it willingly; John pressed their lips together softly, their tongues flicking out to caress against one another as John curled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, holding tightly enough to ground Sherlock but not to hurt his sensitive scalp. Sherlock sighed happily into John’s mouth and rutted shamelessly against John’s hips, desperate for friction.

The pair stripped awkwardly, and unable and unwilling to pull away for one moment they somehow managed to shuffle out of their clothing whilst giggling and kissing. Their breathing matched and ragged as they fell back with an _oomf,_ their naked lengths pushing together. Sherlock valiantly fought to control his urge to climax and breathed deeply, watching John’s face change from lust filled to comforting and loving.

“Ok?” The doctor asked quietly, pressing soft kisses down Sherlock’s long, pale neck.

Sherlock nodded, his cheeks flushed pink and his curls beginning to frizz from the heat and sweat between them.

“Is it too much?” John whispered, his nose nuzzling against Sherlock’s cheekbone. “We can hold on.”

“No,” Sherlock panicked before lowering his eyes. “No.”

John gave a soft smile and kissed his lover before tracing fingers up and down Sherlock’s body slowly, teasing the soft skin until goosebumps flushed over the pale flesh. He had diverted his lips to lick and kiss at the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s neck before realising that the detective’s eyes had glazed over, a sure sign that Sherlock had retreated into his own mind and was walking the passages of his mind palace.

“Hey,” John whispered directly into Sherlock’s ear, “come on back.”

“John,” Sherlock blushed before taking a deep breath.

The doctor sat back on his heels but kept one hand on Sherlock’s abdomen to ensure the younger man felt grounded and secure. Sherlock’s hair was frizzed and his cheeks were flushed with desire, his half lidded eyes completely black with lust as he stared up at John, completely overwhelmed.

“This is it,” Sherlock whispered reverently. “The first time.”

“I told you, I’ll be gentle. You’ll be okay,” John soothed, hushing Sherlock with a soft kiss to the corner of his lip.

“You misunderstand,” Sherlock grumbled, attempting to find the correct words. “This here, it’s _our_ first time. I don’t want to ruin it by not knowing. It’s important to me.”

John felt his heart flutter and his stomach flip at Sherlock’s words. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m terrified,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “What if I make a grievous error? What if you decide I’m too clumsy or useless?”

“That won’t happen,” John whispered, soothing his lover with a soft stroke over his navel and a gentle kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s bow lips. The detective was working himself up into a frenzy which John had never experienced outside of a tricky case, his breathing had become rapid and his cheeks were flushed and red. John knew he had to turn off Sherlock’s mind so took on his Captain persona, straightening his back and kissing Sherlock passionately, feeling the exact moment when Sherlock’s brain ceased its constant whirring.

John let his tongue slip into the warm, welcoming mouth of his lover as his hands traced up and down Sherlock’s sides, his thumbs occasionally smoothing over the sensitive nubs of Sherlock’s nipples as he circled the areola before pulling away. Sherlock groaned as John pressed slow and soft kisses across his cheekbones and jawline until he was at the perfect height to whisper directly into Sherlock’s ear.

“I want our first time together to be perfect, I want us both to experience something new,” John started, kissing along the shell of the younger man’s ear. “I want you to take me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he pulled away slightly to ensure he could look at John fully, his eyes scanning the doctor looking for deception but he found only anticipation as John met his gaze and nodded.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock whispered, his heart thudding so loudly that he could hear it in his ears.

“Absolutely. Let’s lose our virginities together,” John smiled bashfully, stroking a hand over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “We might both be awkward and clumsy but it will be perfect.”

Sherlock sighed, deep and low as John ran his tongue along the harsh contours of the detective’s jawline, tasting the lingering sweat and a days worth of grime as he pulled Sherlock onto the bed clumsily causing both men to giggle childishly as their heads bumped and their elbows clashed. John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair one more time, keeping the raven strands out of those cerulean coloured pools which had rapidly changed to only a slim slither of colour stretched around black pupils.

The doctor climbed between Sherlock’s legs and began kissing and nuzzling at his lower abdomen, pressing breathy kisses to his lover’s navel. John carefully ran his fingers up and down the heavy shaft of Sherlock’s erection, stopping at the tip to run his thumb over the slit before curling them back down again. His eyes focussed on the blissful look in Sherlock’s eyes as he arched his back and pushed his hips further in a desperate attempt to gain more friction from his lover. John moved his hand from Sherlock’s shaft and ran his fingers up and down the slender waist, watching as Sherlock grimaced and shied away from the tickling sensation. John used the opportunity to surprise Sherlock; dropping his head until his breathy exhales breezed over Sherlock’s wet tip to cool heated and aching skin. Sherlock wailed, his eyes flicking open to look between his legs in shock as he watched John extend his tongue and lick a strip around the head of his cock, tasting the musky precum on his taste buds before swallowing it down and returning to salty skin. Sherlock tightened his grip on the sheets, holding them in a death grip as John began slowly taking more and more of Sherlock’s prick into his mouth, fighting the urge to gag as Sherlock’s hips jerked upwards. John used his good arm to press against Sherlock’s hip, effectively pinning him down as he licked and teased the hot flesh between Sherlock’s thighs, watching every facial expression intently until Sherlock arched and began to mumble that he was close. Sensations rushed through his body, igniting every nerve on its way until the whole of his body was aflame with passion and his only thoughts were of John and his rising desperate need to come.

Sherlock keened low and desperate as John pulled away and began to slowly stroke him, keeping him erect but away from ejaculation; his mind was falling apart and he couldn’t keep his thoughts in order as John teased and coaxed more precum from his body, occasionally looking up to meet Sherlock’s stunned gaze before dropping the navy blue eyes back down to Sherlock’s groin. The detective ran his long fingers across John’s chest and shoulders; he would have liked to have touched every part of John but was physically unable due to their positions, something which had Sherlock suddenly panicking. _Should I be touching him? Will he think I'm selfish? Am I giving the correct responses? Does my facial expression match my noises?_

John seemed to hear the internal monologue and moved away from Sherlock’s cock, turning his attention to Sherlock’s face. He cupped Sherlock’s cheeks with his hands and pressed a soft kiss to plush lips before entwining the fingers of his bad arm with Sherlock’s. The detective stilled and blushed at his neediness only to be snogged passionately by an armful of army doctor.

Both men gasped when their stiff cocks rubbed against one another thanks to the change in position; the plentiful leaking of Sherlock’s precum mixed with John’s spit providing perfect lubrication for them to rut against one another uncaringly. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand, whispering soft ‘ _uh_ _’_ noises and closing his eyes as his climax chased towards him with desperation. His pleasure was interrupted by John moving to one side, forcing the detective to angrily open his eyes and mouth in outrage.

“John!” Sherlock grumbled, his cheeks flushed and his eyes half lidded as he pouted. “I was very close!”

“Exactly,” John smiled, reaching to the bedside drawer where he had positioned the lube for further masturbation and anal explorations with his lover. “I want you inside me, Sherlock. I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit with desire and affection for his blogger as he quickly grabbed the bottle from John’s hand. Helping John to lower himself to the bed, he rapidly settled between the open V of John’s legs. The doctor wiggled to a comfortable position and placed a pillow under his hips before nodding at Sherlock that he was ready.

Clicking open the lube, Sherlock felt his heart flutter wildly in anticipation. Although they had played with one another's most intimate areas before, it seemed much more important this time as they intended to fully complete the final act of lovemaking. Sherlock slicked up his hand and dropped the bottle to the bed; his finger teased around John’s entrance before slowly slipping inside with small, shallow thrusts. John gasped and stretched out his body at the first tentative strokes of Sherlock’s fingers inside his body, watching as Sherlock stilled and watched, waiting for instruction.

John nodded his permission to continue, and Sherlock twisted his finger for a few teasing moments before adding a second finger inside John. Callused fingers soon found the bundle of nerves which had John crying out in pleasure, gasping wildly and thrusting back and forth onto Sherlock’s hand whilst the doctor’s own reached down to stroke his cock, attempting to take away the throbbing ache which came from being hard for too long.

Sherlock scissored his fingers as softly as possible before adding a third and final finger. John winced, the stretch vaguely unpleasant with a burning ache as Sherlock made enough space to slip himself inside. The doctor calmed his breathing, _in, out, in, out,_ as Sherlock methodically worked his fingers to circle around John’s prostate whilst John continued to stroke his own cock, keeping it hard rather than attempt to climax.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock whispered anxiously, watching as John bit his lower lip and nodded slowly.

Wiggling to the side, Sherlock reached into the bedside table and grasped the box of condoms which John had brought home from the surgery’s Teenage Pregnancy clinic; his hands shook wildly as he attempted to open the foil packet only to be stopped by John’s thicker and more careful hands wrapping around them. The pair met one another's gaze and exhaled shakily before John ripped the corner from the packet and handed it back to Sherlock, who took out the sheathe and placed it over his twitching length, rolling it down and slicking it with lubricant until it sat comfortably against his skin.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered reverently, his stomach flipping with desire and adoration for the smaller man lay out on the bed beneath him, panting and flushed. John entwined the fingers of his left hand with Sherlock’s and pulled him forward, effectively pushing Sherlock into position and causing their lips to be close enough for breathy kisses to be exchanged, as John opened his legs further and wiggled his hips down feeling Sherlock’s prick nudge his still slick entrance.

Sherlock pushed forward, breeching John’s tightness with his length slowly until his tip was inside the hot, hot heat of John’s body. The doctor flinched and stilled, the burn more painful than he had expected as he stretched around his lover for the first time. Sherlock valiantly fought to keep still, his entire body freezing, refusing to move even a millimetre to ensure he didn’t hurt his lover. John inhaled and exhaled a few times, slowly calming his body before bearing down on the intruder until the pain lessened. Sherlock slipped deeper, his eyes clamping shut at the blissful sensations of being inside John. His brain clicked offline at the simple thought which rushed through his subconscious.

 ** _I am_** inside John.

I am **_inside_** John.

I am inside **_John!_**

His heart pounded and blood rushed in his ears as he cracked open his eyes and looked down at the utterly debauched doctor beneath him. John had his eyes closed, his head thrown back and his lips clamped between his teeth as his hips circled and wiggled, pushing Sherlock deeper and deeper inside him into a place that nobody had ever felt before.

“God,” John whispered, his eyes rolling back slightly as the full length of Sherlock was fully enveloped in heat. “God, Sherlock, please move.”

Sherlock nodded his understanding and moved to kiss John passionately as he began to cautiously thrust in and out of John’s pliant body. The older man groaned and cursed softly into Sherlock’s lips, his free hand which wasn’t entwined into Sherlock’s moving to rest on Sherlock’s hip as the detective began to pick up speed and confidence. Moving his body, Sherlock dropped to rest his weight on one arm under John’s shoulder and thrust harder, experimenting with strokes until John’s eyes rolled back and he growled deep and low, an obvious reaction to his prostate being stroked.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes meeting John with a look so intense that John felt flayed open and completely bare to Sherlock’s gaze.

The doctor’s breathing stuttered. “Ask me again.”

Sherlock’s hips stilled and stopped as he processed the request. “What?”

“Ask. Me. Again.” John insisted, looking up at Sherlock and circling his hips.

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock huffed. “Now?”

“Now,” John nodded, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s own as they slowly began to move again, building up the rhythm once more.

“John Watson.” Sherlock spoke softly but confidently. “Will you marry me?”

John nodded, tears flooding his eyes as he gasped out a yes. His hand which had balanced on Sherlock’s hip moved to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling him down for a loving and intensely passionate kiss which seemed to ratchet up the need burning through their bodies. John allowed the tears to fall over his cheeks as he pulled Sherlock’s forehead down to rest on his own as they worked together to thrust and groan, working themselves to a frenzy in a desperate race to finish. John moved his hand from Sherlock’s head and took himself in hand, tugging on his hard and twitching flesh until the first tendrils of pleasure began to fizzle through his limbs, brighter and more powerful than anything he had ever felt before.

“Sherlock,” he managed to croak before his back was arching and he was coming with an almost painful cry as hot strands of wetness covered their stomachs and chests. Sherlock felt the climax from the inside, gasping and groaning as John tightened around him; the detective managed another half a dozen thrusts before he was over the edge and crying out in bliss as his ejaculate filled the condom between them.

Realising that John was trembling, Sherlock quickly removed himself from the sore and stretched hole. Rolling onto his side he grasped John in his arms and pulled the smaller man to his chest, stroking long fingers through damp blond strands as he allowed John to ride out his overwhelmed reaction to such an intense orgasm.

“I love you,” John whispered repeatedly; over and over the same words were spoken into the inky darkness between them as Sherlock soothed his lover with soft words and careful caresses. Neither man cared about the grimy mess between them or that Sherlock’s now softening cock was still clad in used latex. They cared only for the heartbeats which pressed against one another and the breathing which puffed against clammy skin until sleep overtook them and they fell into the blackness together.

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson carried the baby on her hip up the stairs to 221B; Abigail had been good as gold during the day spent with her _sort of_ Grandma but now the child was becoming fussy and sleepy. Mrs Hudson let herself into the flat and looked around the empty rooms with a frown, the boys hadn’t told her that they would be going out leaving only the bedroom.

Not wanting to pry, the landlady peeked down the hallway and noticed the door slightly open and a tuft of brown hair lay against the pillow. Smiling to herself, she tiptoed into the kitchen in an attempt to grab some supplies before retreating back to the privacy of her own flat with the baby, only to be startled by Sherlock entering the kitchen wrapped in his dressing gown and looking sleepy and sated.

“Oh, hello dear,” Mrs H smiled, “Just popped up for some more nappies and milk.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock grinned, kissing Abigail on the cheek and lifting her from his friend’s hip. “I’ll take her. She’ll need a nap.”

“Looks like you all could do with one,” Mrs Hudson smiled softly before stroking Sherlock’s face in a motherly fashion. “I’m glad you and John sorted it, dear.”

“As am I,” Sherlock admitted before kissing Martha on the top of her head. “Now shoo, don’t you and Mr Patel have a sex date tonight?”

Mrs Hudson blushed and playfully cuffed Sherlock on the arm before turning towards the doorway. “At my age.”

“Do try to keep the noise down, Mrs Hudson. Honestly,” Sherlock tutted before grinning a genuine smile and turning back to the bedroom.

Sherlock had cleaned John up and then showered whilst the doctor slept and now found that John was laying on his back, his mouth slightly open in an endearing snore. Sherlock placed Abigail on the bed beside John and pulled on a pair of pants before climbing in beside his betrothed and his ward. Abigail fussed momentarily before relaxing into the scent of her father and slowly drifted off to sleep whilst Sherlock watched the two loves of his life snoozing together happily.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has not been beta'd as my lovely beta has been poorly :( Everyone send her love and internet hugs please!
> 
> One small chapter after this one.
> 
> A/N Apparently people don't do this Christmas Tradition? It seems to just be me... well... I hope you all continue it on! It's really nice to remember all the good times at Christmas <3

The carrot was hanging from the knocker of the black door on a length of gold tinsel which had been procured from Mrs Hudson, spray snow covered the windows which were lit up with colourful bulbs from the Christmas lights. Baker Street and most of London was decadently decorated for Christmas.

Sherlock looked on bemused as John carried Abigail around the room on his hip; John carried a plate of biscuits in his hand balancing a small silver tankard in the middle of the crockery as he placed it on the mantelpiece with a grinning and warm smile.

“For Father Christmas” John nodded and looked at Sherlock.

The detective simply nodded in agreement and took to his chair, pulling his violin onto his knee he began playing hymns and carols softly as John stood beside the large and intricately decorated Christmas tree he had insisted on purchasing. Sherlock had helped to dress the tree under duress but soon found that his lover’s excitement was infectious; the detective placed the shiny baubles in geometrically perfect patterns and stood back to admire his handiwork. John gave the final trinket to Sherlock and looked down at his own colourful bauble,

John had been out shopping and had found the perfect ornament. His mother had a family tradition when they were growing up; each year Mrs Watson would take Harry and John shopping and allow them to pick their own bauble to represent their year gone by. A happy memory was spoken in front of the tree before the bauble was placed onto the branch, every year when the family unwrapped all of their decorations, they would remember the memory of the bauble before adding the next one.

“It’s a tradition” John blushed before looking at Sherlock with wide, ocean blue eyes. “We give a memory to the tree and then next year, we get another and another. Eventually, the tree will be filled with happy memories”

Sherlock nodded his understanding before thinking; the bauble was simple, a silver metal with an intricate pattern of music notes engraved into the curve.

“This year I got you back” Sherlock whispered, “You came back to me and filled the void in my life”

John gulped back tears and reached to entwine his fingers into Sherlock’s realising that the detective hadn’t finished.

“You brought me somebody else to love. I adore your daughter as much as I love you. You’ve given me a reason to live outside of death, cases and puzzles”

The doctor swallowed once more; the lump in his throat was becoming larger and caused him to dramatically attempt to clear his airways before speaking and looking down at his own trinket. His was a plain clear plastic, a picture of Sherlock holding Abigail and smiling into the camera. It had been a candid and secret photograph which Sherlock wasn’t aware of as John pointed his mobile towards the sofa where the pair had been cuddling. The picture was so beautiful that John had made it into a decoration to keep forever.

“I’m thankful for having you as a best friend, a… lover” John smiled coyly “and a guardian to my child. I never expected to have this”

Both men took a moment to gather themselves before adding their decorations to the tree and taking a step back. It looked elegant and pretty but homely at the same time.

“What time will everyone be here tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, moving to his seat once more and folding his legs.

“About one, Mrs Hudson is cooking the turkey but we’re doing the rest up here” John smiled as he took a seat opposite and nuzzled into Abigail’s cheek. Blowing a soft raspberry on her skin.

“Who’s coming?” Sherlock asked despite knowing already. He just hoped that perhaps it had changed.

“You know” John grumbled before rolling his eyes and indulging his man-child lover “There will be me and you, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly are coming over if she can stomach the smell. Her morning sickness has been rather terrible apparently”

Sherlock nodded before gesturing for John to continue for the final guest,

“And Mycroft will be here”

Sherlock huffed out a grumble “Does he have to come?”

“He’s your brother Sherlock” John sighed, they had already had this argument three times today.

“Your sister isn’t coming” Sherlock replied angrily.

“Harry and Clara are going to Clara’s mums this year” John insisted “It’s the first year Harry’s been sober”

Sherlock stayed silent on the matter but shrugged carelessly as John fiddled with the various bows on Mrs Hudson’s presents which were then placed under the tree.

* * *

 

“Merry Christmas love” John smiled as he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. The detective grumbled and returned the kiss before looking at the alarm clock on the bedside table “John! It’s 5.07am”

“It’s Christmas!” John insisted childishly, his fingers nudging into Sherlock’s underarms and ribs “Can we go and see if Father Christmas has been?”

“John… you know he’s been. We spent most of the night putting out the Christmas gifts on the sofa for when Abigail wakes up despite her being too small to even care” Sherlock huffed

The doctor silenced for a moment before curling back under the covers, his front pressed to Sherlock’s back as he stroked the raven curls and closed his eyes.

“Nope. Can’t sleep. Too excited” John mumbled a moment later before licking up and down Sherlock’s neck.

“Oh for Christs sake” Sherlock attempted to be angry but was actually finding the whole experience novel and rather sweet as John excitedly touched and spoke into his ear.

“It’s Christmas Sherlock!” John sat up on his bum and bounced up and down, forcing the mattress to bounce Sherlock side to side.

“You know I said murder reduces around Christmas time?” Sherlock asked “Well, there’s about to be one more added to the stats if you don’t cease your constant movements”

“ _Christmas Christmas Christmas”_ John sing-songed into Sherlock’s ear before adding a louder and prolonged “ _Christtttttmasssssssss”_

“Right. Right I’m up” Sherlock insisted, standing up and moving to the toilet in an attempt to hide his goofy smile.

* * *

 

Sherlock smiled at John who was sitting on the floor with the baby propped between his legs whilst opening the various colourful presents which John had bought with Sherlock on one of their frequent shopping trips. Abigail was more interested in the paper and was attempting to put it into her mouth despite John’s best attempts to take it away. The doctor was becoming less and less visible behind a mountain of wrapping paper and boxes which housed doll houses, fluffy toys and more clothes than the child would ever wear in her lifetime.

The detective reached for his own pile of gifts and began carefully unwrapping them, reading each gift-tag which had been carefully written by John in an attempt not to scrawl in his usual doctors handwriting. Sherlock had already been surprised by the gifts ( _his family never really bothered with niceties such as presents)_ and had fallen immediately in love with the thoughtful selection which John had purchased, his favourites had been a new navy blue scarf which was remarkably similar to the colour of John’s eyes and a CD of traditional Gypsy songs purchased from a small stall in Camden. Sherlock’s own gift’s seemed to pale in comparison, an expensive Czech made fountain pen for John to use at work and a new and ( _far more)_ expensive coat than John would have ever bought for himself.

The two men met one another’s gazes and smiled lovingly as they enjoyed the peace and tranquillity which was bound to end when Christmas dinner began. John tasked Sherlock with peeling vegetables whilst he bathed the baby and clothed her in a brand new and extremely expensive dress which had come from Mycroft. John realised that it was more likely Anthea or another minion who chose the actual garment but it was the thought that counted.

Sherlock contented himself with preparing the food, popping each vegetable into a pan and filling it with water before moving to set the table. He was midway through placing the knives and forks down when a knock on the door signalled the arrival of the first guests; Molly and Greg entered looking cheery and wind bitten from the cold air outside. Molly wore earmuffs and a grotesque Christmas jumper which had clung to her rapidly swelling pregnancy belly; Greg walked in and immediately clapped a hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder with a smile, grabbing a bread roll and inelegantly putting it into his mouth and chewing before checking that Molly was okay.

John entered the room with the baby and grinned to his guests; Sherlock took Abigail from her father as John strode to Molly’s side to give her a hug and rub his large hand across her belly “How are you feeling?”

“Sick, tired, irritable” Molly grumbled with a happy smile “But I’m happy”

“You look beautiful” Lestrade whispered into her ear as he kissed her temple.

“He’s right. You’re beaming” John added before offering his friends a seat and drink.

The couple sat on the sofa whilst John took his own chair. Sherlock wandered towards his lover and sat on the arm of the chair, whilst cuddling and supporting Abigail in his arms. Their friendly conversation was halted at the soft _taptaptap_ of the point of an umbrella hitting the stairs up to the flat. Sherlock scowled childishly before fixing his gaze on the doorway as his brother entered,

“Merry Christmas all” Mycroft smiled softly, his usual three piece suit looking remarkably Christmassy with a comedy tie obviously given by Mrs Hudson much to Mycroft’s discomfort.

“You look ridiculous” Sherlock huffed with a laugh causing John to pinch him as he tried to hide his own smile.

* * *

 

The meal was a success with Mrs Hudson’s perfectly prepared turkey being eagerly eaten by the group who made happy conversation whilst pulling crackers and discussing their Christmas gifts and the plans for New Year, something which Sherlock had waited for intently.

“I’d like to say a few words” Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair, watching nervously as everybody centred their attention on him. John sat beside him, giving Abigail her bottle whilst looking up with love filled eyes. “John and I have an announcement”

Mrs Hudson gasped and covered her mouth happily as Sherlock continued “We have agreed that I will adopt Abigail as my own. She will be a Holmes in all but name”

Molly and Mrs Hudson exchanged looks before their eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Also, We’ve decided that we’re going to get married” Sherlock grinned bashfully, meeting Mycroft’s gaze before looking down at John and the baby “It won’t be a big deal. Something small and intimate but we’d like you all to be there”

Lestrade lifted his glass of wine and prepared a toast to the happy couple “To marriage, babies and happy ever after”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but lifted his glass in a toast before taking a sip, noticing that John couldn’t toast with his arms full of his daughter. Holding his own glass to John’s lips, he smiled as his lover took a small sip and nodded.

_**6 months later;** _

Sherlock and John left the registry office as husbands surrounded by their closest family and friends; Abigail who was normally so fussy had taken an immediate liking to Anthea and Mycroft, insisting that she only be carried by one of the two without crying or causing a scene. Mycroft found it awkward and nerve wracking at first, but soon changed his mind as he held his adopted niece in his arms, careful not to crease his suit but looking happy as Abigail fiddled with his diamond incrusted tiepin.

“Are you happy Dr Holmes-Watson?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling John’s cheek and placing a soft kiss to the skin.

“Absolutely Mr Holmes-Watson” John replied, giggling happily when they were pelted with small paper confetti hearts whilst all around them flashes erupted from personal cameras. Mycroft had ensured that no journalists were in the area to allow them some privacy as a family,

John and Sherlock entwined their fingers and moved to where Lestrade stood with his arm protectively around Molly and their 2 week old newborn baby boy. Jacob Lestrade was a healthy and boisterous boy who was bound to be trouble, much like his father as Mrs Hudson had joked. John stroked his fingers through the auburn locks of the baby’s hair and kissed Molly’s cheek softly “Thank you so much for coming”

“Wouldn’t have missed it” Molly grinned, “Could never resist wedding cake”

The newlyweds looked around at their family and friends contentedly; the fight for their relationship, friendship and sanity had been long fought but worth it as they looked forward to spending the rest of their lives together as the Holmes-Watson family.


	18. Abigail through the years,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small collection of drabbles I had collected whilst writing, 
> 
> After a discussion with Mary Jo Holmes, we decided that Abigail will call Sherlock a parental name. I know usually John is papa and Sherlock is daddy but daddy to me seems like the actual father... so yeh. I've done it so that Sherlock is Papa and John is Daddy. Hope you enjoy!

Abigail rolled over from her spot on the sofa where she had been napping; her hair was wild and free from her pulling and twisting it as she slept, and she was dressed only in her nappy and a tshirt which Sherlock had purchased. The pale blue shirt was one of many printed with scientific jargon and symbols on them and today's depicted the pi symbol. Reaching for her blanket and Johnny the hedgehog she rubbed at her eyes and called out for her daddy, smiling when the blonde man returned and fussed with her before giving her smoochie kisses.

The sound of the door startled Abigail who looked expectantly to the entrance.

“Mykey,” the baby smiled as Mycroft entered Baker Street. Her plump little fists reaching up for her adopted uncle who was always so kind.

“Hello Abigail,” Mycroft replied formally, causing John to snigger that perhaps he would offer his hand for a handshake.

“Come. Come,” Abigail nodded and pointed; slipping off the sofa she reached for Mycroft’s hand and led him towards her dad’s chair. Mycroft, ever the genius, sat down and allowed the small child to climb up his legs to settle on his upper thigh before rubbing her face on the starched collar of his shirt with a sigh.

“Daddy?” Abigail mumbled sweetly, “Willy?”

Mycroft blanched and looked at the child and then at John who chuckled softly, “I don’t think Uncle Myc has time love.”

“For… for what?” Mycroft asked cautiously as John walked to the wall mounted TV and pushed in the DVD for the millionth time.

“She’s become obsessed with Willy Wonka,” John smiled as he watched Mycroft relax slightly, tension disappearing from his face but not from his arms which still remained stiff.

“Loompah Loompah?” Abigail asked with a massive grin, looking expectedly at Mycroft and nodding, “Loompah!”

“She wants you to sing the song,” John smiled, curiously enjoying the tortured look on Mycroft’s face.

“I’m—I’m afraid I don’t know the lyrics,” Mycroft admitted as he watched the movie begin.

Abigail shrugged and wiggled her nappy clad bum onto Mycroft, getting comfortable and slipping Johnny the hedgehog into her mouth as she sucked and relaxed into the film. Mycroft could only wrap his arm around her waist and hold her close to his body, enjoying the smell of her baby shampoo as she nuzzled further into his embrace.

  
##

Anthea frowned and stared at her boss as he hummed in his office; his hands making quick work of the piles of paperwork which had collected during his two hour break at Baker Street. Her eyebrows met in the middle as she finally recognised the song that Mycroft was singing softly.

“Sir?” Anthea started, “Are you singing the Oompah Loompah song?”

“My niece is a big fan,” Mycroft smiled softly. “Would you arrange a hamper of Wonka chocolate to be sent to her please?”

“Of course sir,” Anthea nodded before grinning warmly, aware that the Iceman was thawing.

* * *

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow from above his newspaper as he watched Abigail stomp into the kitchen. She obviously had decided to dress herself today and her choice immediately amused Sherlock with the knowledge that John wouldn’t be happy with the decision.

“Abigail?” Sherlock asked, looking down at his adopted child.

“My name isn’t Abigail,” the young girl insisted. She crossed her arms over her chest dramatically and pouted. “It’s Princess Spiderman”

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip to stifle a laugh; the girl was wearing her Spiderman costume which she had worn for the recent Halloween party at Molly and Greg’s along with a pink, glittery tutu, sparkly tiara and wand.

“Okay, Princess Spiderman,” Sherlock smiled, “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Smarties Cereal,” she nodded, climbing awkwardly onto the high backed kitchen chair and looking up at Sherlock expectantly.

“Erm… I don’t think we have that?” Sherlock replied as he walked to the cereal cupboard. “Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Dad’s boring Branflakes… No Smarties cereal.”

“It’s just Smarties in a bowl with milk,” Princess Spiderman grinned.

##

John returned from work and watched as his child spun wildly in circles, her blonde hair which had obviously been styled by Sherlock into a pretty plait was now sticking up at all angles as she whirled around and around with her arms outstretched.

“Abigail?” John asked, opening his arms for a hug, “Are you going to say hello to Daddy?”

“That’s not my name,” Abigail insisted as she continued spinning, her mouth making strange ‘woowooowooowoo’ sounds as she spun.

“She’s Princess Spiderman today,” Sherlock smiled as he walked into the living room and pressed a kiss to the corner of John’s lips.

“Fine." John rolled his eyes. “Princess Spiderman, can I please have a cuddle?”

“Of course daddy!” Abigail laughed as she ran over, flailing wildly as her dizziness overwhelmed her and sent her tumbling into Sherlock’s chair. John rushed and grabbed his daughter, holding her tight and checking her for injuries. “Are you alright, love?”

“Daddy…I feel—” Abigail started before vomiting over John’s front. A rainbow of colours staining his jumper as she gagged and whimpered in pain.

“What did you let her eat?” John asked looking up at Sherlock who was wincing at the mess.

“We did a cereal experiment,” Sherlock admitted cautiously, rubbing his arm behind his neck.

* * *

 

“Paaa-ppppppa?” the drawling voice came from Abigail’s room where she had been drawing for the last hour. Sherlock stood from his position in his chair before walking up the stairs and poking his head into the door.

“Yes?”

“Why do spiders have eight legs?” Abigail asked with wide eyes, her colourful crayons stopping all work as she looked up.

Sherlock considered the answer; John had chastised him a few times for over explaining the information to Abigail who just needed simple, child friendly advice. The doctor didn’t want another experience of sleeping in his daughter's bed because she was scared of the monster in her wardrobe ( _Sherlock had promptly informed her there were no such thing as monsters, only serial killers, sex attackers and dictators. Something which made the nightmares worse)._

“Er…” Sherlock started before smiling that he knew the answer. “One major innovation in the Arthropods is the evolution of tagmatization, this allowed different body parts to have different suites of genes expressed depending on if the segment was fore, midsection, or aft. The number of segments bearing limbs is different in spiders and ants, hence the different number of legs.”

Abigail looked up confused and gave a nod as though she understood. “It would be fun if horses had eight legs.”

Sherlock chuckled and looked over at the picture which Abigail had obviously spent so long drawing; it showed Toby, his horse which lived at the Holmes manor, only this version had eight legs.

“Or chickens,” Sherlock countered. “Then me and daddy wouldn’t have to argue over who wants the chicken legs on Sunday lunch.”

“You should speak to Unky Myky,” Abigail nodded all serious. “He’s a super, duper clever man. I bet he could ask the queen.”

“I’ll do that,” Sherlock laughed, kissing the blonde messy curls and leaving the room. He pulled out his mobile and chuckled as he composed a text to his brother.

**Abigail insists that you speak to the queen. She wants a chicken with eight legs and thinks you can arrange it** **– SH**

Less than a minute later his phone pinged with a response.

**Perhaps we should speak to Baskerville? Not sure the Queen would have much interest** **– MH**

 

* * *

 

Sunday’s were always quiet in Baker Street, thanks to John having time off from the surgery and Sherlock insisting on spending his weekends with his family and not at crime scenes ( _unless it was above an 8)._ The three would invite Mrs Hudson upstairs and cook a Sunday roast, enjoying the landladies company as they ate and chatted.

“Daddy?” Abigail asked with her head cocked to the side as she munched on a piece of broccoli.

“Yes, petal?” John replied, smiling at his daughter who was growing far, far too quickly. She was starting to look remarkably like Harry as she became older.

“Papa told me a lie,” she whispered, watching as Sherlock turned his head with a frown.

“When? What did I say?” Sherlock asked confused.

“You told me you didn’t believe in God,” Abigail frowned, her hands dropping her fork to the plate with a clatter which startled Mrs H who put a hand on her chest.

“I don’t,” Sherlock insisted.

“Then _whyyyy,_ ” she drawled, “were you shouting for him last night?”

The silence in the room was deafening as John stared at Sherlock who looked back, before looking towards Mrs Hudson who was desperately trying to hide her smiles.

“I… I wasn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, his cheeks blushing red.

“You were. You were shouting _oh God_ and then daddy’s name,” Abigail nodded and fixed her glare at her daddy. “Didn’t you hear him daddy?”

“I [ahem] … well… I maybe,” John stammered before Mrs Hudson swiftly swooped in to help.

“Daddy and Lock were just acting out a play,” Martha smiled gently. “Obviously they got too excited and didn’t notice they were being loud.”

“Silly daddy,” Abigail rolled her eyes in a very Sherlockian manner.


End file.
